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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 











PATUFFA 











P A T U F F A 

THE STORY OF AN ARTIST 


BY 

BEATRICE HARRADEN 

n 

Author of 

“Ships that Pass in the Night/’ 
etc. 



> •> 


NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

MCMXXIII 











Copyright, 1923 , by 
Beatrice Harraden 


All rights reserved 



SEP 15 73 


Printed in the United States of America 

©C1A752959 A * 



PATUFFA 













PART I 



PATUFFA 


CHAPTER I 

I T was In the month of May 1893, about half¬ 
past four in the afternoon, when a wild-look¬ 
ing little old man knocked violently at a house 
in the Earl’s Court Road. The door was opened 
by a maid, who immediately had a bad attack of 
nerves on beholding the eccentric apparition con¬ 
fronting her. 

“ I wish to see Miss Patuffe,” he screamed ex¬ 
citedly. 

“ Please, sir, you can’t see her. No one can 
see her to-night,” Jane gasped bravely, for she 
was really quaking in her shoes. “ I’ve got strict 
orders that she’s not to be disturbed for any one.” 

“Fool! Idiot!” he shouted, stamping his 
foot. “ If you not let me pass, I murder you. 
So! ” 

And he made a movement as if he were going 
to stab her to the heart. 

Now Jane by no means wished to be stabbed 
to the heart. Her valorous intention, therefore, 
to hold the door against all intruders broke down 
precipitately. She opened it wide and admitted 
the stranger. 

“ Fool, idiot woman,” he repeated in a high 

3 


PATUFFA 


4 

falsetto tone, which was most unnerving. u Go 
and tell her the so great Stefansky is here. 
There, there, do not look frightened, stupid, silly 
girl — perhaps I not murder you so quickly.” 

At that moment a beautiful woman of middle- 
age came into the hall. 

“ Madame Mama! ” he cried, rushing forward 
to her. 

“ Stefansky! ” she exclaimed, with both hands 
out. “ You here — on this night of all nights! ” 

“ Of course,” he said, laughing joyously. 
“ That devil’s child, Patuffe, making her first ap¬ 
pearance at the Philharmonic — of course I had 
to be here. When I heard the news at Prague I 
left everything, Madame Mama — of course — 
there was nothing else to be done. And I tell you 
if that devil’s child not play the Mendelssohn Con¬ 
certo her best, her so great best to-night, I kill her 
at once. If she disgrace me, I not spare her life. 
Now you know.” 

“ Yes, I quite understand,” said Mama smiling 
happily. “ Come into the living-room, dear 
Stefansky, whilst I go and warn her of her im¬ 
pending fate.” 

“ You are still very beautiful, Madame Mama,” 
he said, putting his hand to his heart and 
bowing. “ The years have stood still for you 
— those peegs of years, hein! Very beautiful 
and what you English call stately — as always.” 

“ I am glad you think so,” she said, laughing 
and blushing a little. 


PATUFFA 


5 


Mrs. Rendham left him pacing around like a 
caged coyote and hurried to Patuffa’s room. 
Patuffa was lying down, although the hairdresser 
had given strict and definite instructions that the 
head must by no means touch the pillow. Her 
concert dress lay all in a heap on the floor, al¬ 
though Mama had implored her with tragic en¬ 
treaty to be careful about it. She was munching 
some superfine chocolates which her old school- 
friend, Irene Tvrell, had brought to sustain her 
during the trying hours preceding her first Phil¬ 
harmonic concert. 

“ Patuffa,” said Mama, so excited that she 
could scarcely breathe. “ Great news for you — 
Stefansky is here. You were right. You said 
he’d come if he got your letter in time.” 

Patuffa sprang up from her bed, seized an old 
mackintosh hanging on the door, precipitated her¬ 
self into it, grabbed the chocolate box, nearly up¬ 
set Mama, and dashed downstairs like an ava¬ 
lanche. 

“ Papa Stefansky,” she cried, “ I knew you’d 
come. I felt it in my bones.” 

“ Aha, you were right to feel it in your bones* 
devil’s child,” he laughed, dancing around her and 
rubbing his hands in glee. “ The fool of a girl, 
she say I couldn’t see you. Another moment — 
and her so stupid life was gone. Aha, Mama is 
still very beautiful — and you, Patuffe — no, you 
are not beautiful — nothing could make you 
beautiful — but you are Patuffe. When I have 


6 


PATUFF A 


said that, I have said all. And this is your con¬ 
cert dress? That is certainly very fashionable 
and lovely — it will keep the rain off the platform 
very well indeed! ” 

She laughed and circled about him in the old 
way, as she and Irene used to do as children. 
Then with sudden impulse she seized a violin lying 
on a table in the corner and thrust it in his hands. 

“ The old tune, Papa Stefansky,” she cried, 
“ the old dance — you remember — which you 
and I and Irene and Carissima used to dance to¬ 
gether when you were in a good temper, and 
weren’t too tired after your practising.” 

“ Remember,” he said, “ of course I remember. 
But my poor little parrot, Carissima, she is dead 
long ago, and I am old — very old. And where 
is that wretch Irene? Still, we do a few little 
steps — yes — to put some heart into us for this 
so great and grand night.” 

He took the violin and struck up the well-known 

jig- 

u Come now, Madame Mama,” he said, “ you 
must join in, and then the devil’s child — she play 
the cadenza to me.” 

So round the table they danced, and into the 
hall, and back again into the sitting-room. 
Mama, half faint with laughing, ended in the arm¬ 
chair, happy, but breathless, and Patuffa gave her 
a hug and said: 

u Isn’t this a splendid kind of nerve rest, dar¬ 
ling? I feel years younger, and ready to knock 


PATUFFA 7 

spots out of every one, and tear out every one’s 
hair.” 

u That is the right spirit, the only right spirit,” 
said Stefansky. “ Now we all take a chocolate to 
recover ourselves — one for you, Madame 
Mama, one for me, the great Stefansky — not 
great now — no one care for him now, after his 
so long travels all over the world; but no matter, 
he is great all the same and always shall be great, 
even if the peegs of a public not want the great 
Stefansky.” 

u Pigs! ” put in Patuffa truculently. “ I’ll do 
them in.” 

“ And one chocolate for little Patuffe,” he con¬ 
tinued, “ in her so beautiful mackintosh concert 
robe. Ah, that is good for us all! And now to 
our business. Some of the Allegro and the 
Cadenza. If you play that not too badly, I not 
trouble for you. Stand on that mat.” 

Mama had ever admired Patuffa’s nerve. Her 
mind went back years ago to the pine forests at 
Loschwitz, where she had first heard her little girl 
rehearse before the great Stefansky. She thought 
at the time that she herself would have died from 
fright if she had been called upon to face such an 
ordeal; and she thought the same now as she 
watched Patuffa take up her station on the mat 
and prepare for action. 

Very winning and interesting looked Patuffa in 
her old mackintosh. Her dressed hair was in 
disarray, but it suited her better in a rebellious 


PATUFFA 


condition. She had ever been curiously indifferent 
to dress, yet managed somehow to present an at¬ 
tractive appearance to the world. She had the 
gift of carrying her clothes well, with the result 
that one was never conscious of what she did wear. 
Stefansky was right in saying that she was not 
beautiful; but there was on her face the same 
arresting intensity which had marked her out from 
others as a child. She had keen eyes, a delicate 
mouth with humor hovering around, and a dash¬ 
ing manner. There was something of the wild 
bird about her which proclaimed an untamed spirit. 

She was slightly under middle height, slim, and 
yet compact of build. She looked as if she en¬ 
joyed excellent health, and the very slight depres¬ 
sion of her cheeks spoke of intensity rather than 
of delicacy. Her hair, always her best posses¬ 
sion, was charming. Even the art of that bar¬ 
barous personage, the court hairdresser, had been 
unable to deprive it of its natural beauty. 

She stood at attention for a moment or two, 
stared at Stefansky as if she did not see him, stared 
into space as if searching for something beyond 
the ken of human eye, and then began. 

He breathed deep breaths until she came to the 
Cadenza, in every Concerto always one of the 
severest tests of the musician’s faculties. 

“And now,” he murmured, “ and now, if she 
fails — my God, if she fails — Madame Mama, 
I ask you — I ask you, if she fails. . . 

But Patuffa did not heed him, and if she had 


PATUFFA 


9 


heard, she would only have been spurred on to 
higher effort to win his praise, to vindicate her¬ 
self, to uphold her Art. 

She laid hold of the Cadenza in masterly 
fashion, and, when she had ended it, played a few 
bars of the Tutti and then ceased. 

There was a moment of silence before he looked 
up with moist eyes and saw her standing on the 
rug waiting for his words with the same patience 
as on that momentous occasion years ago when he 
had made the final decision that she should adopt 
the career of a professional violinist. A thou¬ 
sand things had happened to Patuffa since that 
wonderful day; but no change in circumstance, no 
development of character, no variation in tem¬ 
perament could have altered by one hair’s breadth 
her attitude towards Papa Stefansky. She stood 
waiting for his verdict with a tragic endurance 
which had no trace of appeal. 

“ Little devil’s child,” he said at last, in a half 
whisper, “ if it was any one else but you I should 
be madly, madly jealous — but I must not, I can¬ 
not, I will not be jealous of the little devil’s child 
— you must not let me, Patuffe, you must not let 
me, Madame Mama. Never that, never! ” 


CHAPTER II 


I 

W HEN Stefansky, ten or twelve years pre¬ 
viously, had given his verdict in favor of 
a professional musical career for little 
Patuffa Rendham, she had played him the Andante 
from the Mendelssohn Concerto. He had been 
profoundly moved by her playing, and he had 
said: 

“ Yes, little devil’s child, this shall be your 
career. But you must learn — my God, how you 
must learn! — and you must practise, practise, 
practise till your arm drop off and you have no 
arm left to practise with. This is the only way.’ r 

She had practised and worked with amazing and 
unfaltering diligence, and with a passionate enthu¬ 
siasm. It is certain that to no other study would 
she have given all her young years. But she was 
heart and soul in music, and keenly ambitious and 
determined. For the sake of nothing else on earth 
would she have learnt to curb some of her natural 
waywardness and rebelliousness against all author¬ 
ity and discipline. 

She was taken to Leipzig immediately after 

Stefansky’s decision. Mama went with her and 

10 


PATUFFA 


11 


stayed some time with her in, a German family 
until their beloved friend Mr. Tyrell, known to 
those who loved him as “ Chummy,” and Irene, his 
daughter, Patuffa’s old school friend, took up their 
abode in Leipzig. Then Patuffa, who remained 
with her German family, went in and out of the 
Tyrells’ home as she chose. She could have lived 
there entirely if she had cared. But as she was 
happy and very well pleased with her Germans, 
he contented himself with watching over her, and 
furthering her education and interests. Mama re¬ 
mained at home and looked after her little boys, 
Mark and Eric. She made adventurous dashes 
over to Germany from time to time, enjoyed her¬ 
self enormously, and always returned satisfied that 
Patulfa was safe and in good hands. 

In Leipzig Patuffa studied under Schradiech, 
and made progress which astounded him. She 
received her Diploma at the end of two years, and 
then went to Berlin and entered the Hochschule, 
and became a pupil eventually of Joachim. She 
captured here the Mendelssohn Prize, and made 
her debut at the Philharmonic Concert in Berlin 
when she played the Max Bruch Concerto in G 
Minor. She returned to Leipzig and had the 
honor of playing at one of the Gewandhaus Con¬ 
certs. Later she went to Moscow to study inter¬ 
pretation under Auer. She thus had every chance 
of first-class training that a violinist could have in 
those days. Chummy saw to that, and Mama’s 
family, in the shape of a rich old aunt, played 


12 


PATUFFA 


up in unexpected fashion. Aunt Eleanor disliked 
fanatically the idea of having a professional mu¬ 
sician in the family. She thought that the proper 
place for a professional musician was in the con¬ 
cert hall, and never in a family which boasted all 
the finest traditions of the Navy. 

“ But, Marion,” she said grimly to Mama, her 
favorite niece, u if we have to endure this appall¬ 
ing disgrace, we must see to it that the disgrace is 
not increased by incompetency. That wretched 
child must have her horrible chance.” 

This way of putting things was not specially 
alluring. But when Mama was half-disposed to 
resent and refuse this definite practical help, her 
friend, Mme. Patuffa Tcharushin, a Russian revo¬ 
lutionary, before whom she always laid every plan, 
trouble or joy, said: 

“ Na, na, Marionska — what does it matter 
about the words? People have to speak and say 
things in their own curious fashion. If some one 
write to me: Your Society of the Friends of Russia 
is an abominable damnation, but I send one thou¬ 
sand pound so that it become not so great an 
abominable damnation, I laugh and am pleased 
and understand. You must do the same, for the 
sake of Patuffa — and the old lady, since it is her 
innocent debauchery to do a kind deed very, very 
disagreeably.” 

Aunt Eleanor died soon afterwards, but not be¬ 
fore she had done another kind deed more or less 
disagreeably. She settled a small income on 


PATUFFA 


13 


Mama, “ to prevent her,” so she said, “ from dis¬ 
gracing the family further by bringing up her two 
boys for any careers except that of the glorious 
Navy.” 

Thus Patuffa did not have to owe everything to 
Chummy, though he “ stood by ” all through 
those years of apprenticeship and gave her 
pleasures and advantages which could never have 
come her way but for his kindness. He had al¬ 
ways had careers on the brain, for girls as well as 
boys. He was a pioneer, though he did not know 
it. He thought that careers strewn around were 
the only things that mattered seriously, and that 
all other foolish little details could be easily filled 
in, or left out, according to circumstances. Per¬ 
haps he was right. Anyway, he would have spent 
his last farthing in forwarding or giving careers, 
opening doors which would have remained closed, 
removing barriers, and tempering difficulties with 
opportunities for joyfulness and pleasure. 

As a child, Patuffa had earned his gratitude for 
her fierce championship of his little daughter 
Irene, who had been flouted and bullied at school 
for her passionate love of learning; and from that 
time onwards she had shared with Irene ihe bene¬ 
fit of his intimate comradeship. Her quick in¬ 
telligence and impulsive temperament garnered 
many a treasure of his scattering which was to af, 
feet her art immeasurably. Through his direct, 
though unconscious influence, she became, as years 
went on, not merely a skilled manipulator of the 


14 


PATUFFA 


violin, but a true artist with a belief in the high 
mission of Art, and with a mind which had stores 
from which to enrich her natural gift of musical 
interpretation. 

Such then was Patuffa on the eve of her appear¬ 
ance at St. James’s Hall. She had already played 
very successfully in some of the principal towns in 
Germany, and had made favorable impression in 
Brussels, Paris, Vienna, and Moscow. She came 
from the Continent armed with excellent notices; 
and now it w T as to be seen what she could do with a 
London audience. 


II 

Stefansky had no real anxiety about her. He 
believed she would win laurels for herself that 
night. He had been amazed at her playing. 
Apart from her masterly technique, there was an 
arresting nobility in her interpretation, a sincerity 
in her style, a delicate finish in her phrasing, a re¬ 
strained tenderness in cantabile passages which 
one might not have expected of her, and a 
reckless abandon which would take people by 
storm. 

“ She will go far,” he repeated to himself. 

Yet he was nervy and agitated, and preferred to 
go to the concert alone instead of joining forces 
with her friends. He chose the gallery. He 
wished to hear the effect of Patuffa’s playing from 
a distance and observe the impression which her 


PATUFFA 15 

art and personality made on the audience as a 
whole. 

So he sat amongst those “ pigs of the public ” 
as he had so often disrespectfully called them, and 
tried to believe that he was in very truth one of 
them, and not the great Stefansky. 

Did he long to reveal himself to them and say, 
“ Do you know who I am? I will tell you, I am 
the great Stefansky? ” 

Perhaps he did with one part of his mind. But 
with the other he wanted to be merely a plain 
member of the great public, betraying no sign 
either to bias or encourage his fellow-hearers 
when they were judging Patuffa. He was grimly 
resolved that no word, no gesture of his should 
contribute to their verdict. For the first time in 
his life Stefansky wanted to obliterate his own 
personality; and so quietly did he carry out his 
intention that no one noticed the wild-looking, 
weird little figure of a man who leaned back silent 
and impassive, with closed eyes, waiting with a 
curious patience which was entirely foreign to his 
nature. During the overture to Leonora and the 
“ Venusberg ” music from Tannhauser which pre¬ 
ceded Patuffa’s appearance, he might not have 
been alive. 

But when her moment came, Stefansky opened 
his eyes and sat upright, rigid, grim. His heart 
beat and his face twitched. He folded his hands 
tightly together and thus made no attempt to add 
to the kind-hearted and encouraging applause 


16 


PATUFFA 


which often greets a new virtuoso in England. 
He stared right across to the platform, and with 
his sharp little eyes saw her quite well enough for 
his purpose. 

He heard his neighbor say, “ A striking face. 
Nothing of the pretty-pretty there.” 

He nearly said, “ Of course not, fool, idiot.” 

Some one behind him said, “What a beautiful 
dress she is wearing.” 

Stefansky smiled, and thought, “ Aha, plainly, 
then, Patuffe is not wearing her so lovely mackin¬ 
tosh.” 

The smile and the thought broke his rigidity, 
and his tense anxiety gave way to eager interest, 
curiosity, conjecture. What would she do with 
the Concerto? What would she do with the 
orchestra? Would it overwhelm her? Or would 
she work with it, weave herself in and out of it 
and waft herself above it to realms where it could 
never enter, where she alone would hold undis¬ 
puted sway? How would she take the vivace pas¬ 
sages? Could she find enough tenderness for the 
moving beauty of the Andante? Would she be 
nervous and hurry when she ought not to hurry, 
or over-accentuate pathos when she needed steady 
control of emotion? Scores of questions rose in 
his artist’s mind. One by one Patuffa answered 
them until his head was bowed and his left hand 
was pressing deep into his breast, and his little 
figure was rocking to and fro and tears were 
trickling unheeded down his shaggy face. 


PATUFFA 


17 


He knew that she had soared beyond his own 
power of flight, and that in style and phrasing, 
in all the nuances and in inspiration she had left 
him, her old master, far, far behind. He knew 
it, and a chill struck at his heart. 

When they called her back, she came on the 
platform with a joyousness which had the charm 
of unselfconsciousness. She realized how splen¬ 
didly the orchestra had helped and supported her, 
and she turned to them, not with the automatic 
acknowledgment one often sees on these occasions, 
but with a true human impulsiveness of gratitude 
which reached each one of those jaded musicians, 
who were tired to extinction of glorious gen¬ 
iuses. 

If her gesture could have been translated into 
words, those words would have been, “ I think 
you all have been perfect bricks and I do thank 
you. ,} But the unspoken message was borne to 
all, from leader of the violins to the drum. 
Even he, a cynic of cynics, was pleased, though he 
was careful to edit his gratification by saying, 
“ She won’t always be like that. She’ll soon 
get a swelled head like all of them. I know 
them.” 

No, perhaps not. But on this evening of her 
first London triumph it is certain that she included 
in it every one in that hall, conductor, orchestra, 
and audience. 

Her playing had been superb, and her success 
was assured. Several times she was recalled, and 


18 


PATUFFA 


as she returned to the platform for the last time, 
flushed, excited, almost bewildered by the increas¬ 
ing applause, she whispered to Mama: 

“ Mama, I don’t know how to go back again. 
I believe I’m going to cry.” 

“ Never! ” said Mama with great resource, al¬ 
though she was herself nearly weeping. “You 
could only cry from rage, darling.” 

“ Yes, that’s true,” said Patufla with a laugh, 
and she gathered herself together and received 
her final ovation with perfect quietness of dignity. 
No one would have guessed that she was, as she 
confessed afterwards, nearer to hysterics and 
smelling salts than she had ever been in her life. 

In the artists’ room she received the congratula¬ 
tions of several distinguished personages in the 
world of music, people whose influence on her 
career would be far-reaching. Amongst them 
w r as the manager of the Philharmonic, George 
Plendered, a cautious man unaccustomed to com¬ 
mit himself to expressions of praise or apprecia¬ 
tion. No artist had succeeded in piercing the 
mask which concealed his enthusiasms, his emo¬ 
tions, his ideals. But on this one occasion he laid 
it aside of his own free will. 

“Bravo, bravo!” he said. “You have done 
finely. I am delighted with you. A long time 
since I have enjoyed listening to any one so much.” 

His heavy face lit up with the transforming 
radiance of a true enthusiasm. It was obvious 
that Patuffa’s art had impressed him most favor- 


PATUFFA 


19 


ably, and that her personality also had won his 
interest. She struck him as being an altogether 
different type from that of the executants with 
whom he usually had dealings. She looked dif¬ 
ferent too, franker, simpler, and freer of spirit. 
He liked her curious little headlong and yet re¬ 
strained manner, and her easy, happy comradeship 
with her mother. He had heard Mama’s re¬ 
mark to her when she said she was going to cry, 
and he had laughed with them both and clapped 
her well when she braced herself with the stimu¬ 
lating remembrance that she only wept when she 
was in a rage and, thus re-assured, ran on to the 
platform for her last call. He thought suddenly 
of young, fresh, green spring leaves, and then 
laughed at himself for being a fool. 

She was tremulous with excitement when she 
returned to the artists’ room; but dominating all 
her emotions was her anxiety about Stefansky’s 
verdict. She looked around hoping to see him. 
The moment he entered, all other people, whether 
conductors or managers or directors, critics or 
fellow-musicians, ceased to have any importance 
or indeed any existence on this globe. She leaped 
to greet him. Her face became drawn with the 
tension of her nervous expectancy. Mama 
watched her and loved her afresh for her un¬ 
swerving loyalty. 

“Papa Stefansky, have I pleased you?” she 
asked. “ That’s what I want to know most of 
all.” 


20 


PATUFFA 


“ No, you have not pleased me, devil’s child,” 
he answered half deprecatingly. 

“ Not pleased you? ” she repeated tragically. 

“ Not pleased me altogether,” he went on, “ for 
the reason that you have made me ragingly angry 
with mad jealousy because you have played 
superb, Patuffe.” 

Her face shone again. 

“ At least that would be my state of mind if 
you was not my little Patuffe,” he continued. 
“ Superb — superb — superb. The tone — what 
a tone! — pure, firm and beautiful — and the 
tenderness — what a tenderness! — and the elan 
— ha, the elan! I kiss the hands of the devil’s 
child.” 

Chivalrously, tenderly, the old man took them 
and put his lips to them. 

“ Homage, my little Patuffe, homage,” he 
murmured. 


CHAPTER III 


I 


M R. TYRELL, who had recently been ill 
from bronchitis, did not go to the concert. 
So it was understood that every one 
should finish off the evening at his house and 
celebrate the occasion with a plentiful supply of 
the very best champagne, unfailingly appreciated 
by the many musicians who frequented his house. 
In the world of music he was known as a true 
Maecenas, and his house in the Melbury Road 
went by the name of “ Headquarters.” Artists 
of all degrees found there an ever-ready haven, 
either in bright days of prosperity or dark nights 
of adversity. He had passed his life in minister¬ 
ing to poets and painters and musicians, whom he 
regarded as the saviors of the world — the 
natural enemies of materialism. His home had 
ever been open to them; and his purse also. 

But he had given them far more than mere 
money. He gave them respect, consideration, ap¬ 
preciation, and, above all, independence. His 
view was that it was his privilege to share what he 
had with them, and he would infinitely have pre¬ 
ferred their ingratitude to their homage and flat- 

21 


22 


PATUFFA 


tery. A patron of Arts and Letters — perish 
the thought! A friend, yes. That was entirely 
another matter. He reaped a certain amount of 
ingratitude, of course, at which he laughed. He 
was deceived, imposed on, innumerable times. 
But no untoward experience impaired his trust or 
his enthusiasm. He went his wayward path, in¬ 
corrigible and confident. His purse remained 
open, his heart unhardened and the door of his 
home unlocked. The only person on earth who 
could have checked him was Irene. But she had 
inherited from him the same tendencies and the 
same views. To her also musicians and poets 
and painters, and all who ministered to the needs 
of the mind and spirit, were the saviors of the 
world. She had seen to it that the traditions of 
Headquarters were carried on without a break, 
and she would have cheerfully given her last 
farthing for that end. But she gave even more. 
She sacrificed time and serenity and bore with 
amazing composure endless interruptions to her 
literary work which would have reduced most 
writers to angry pulp. 

Chummy sat alone in the beautiful music room, 
enjoying, as ever, the sight of his pictures and 
books and organ and musical instruments of 
diverse kinds, and waited, but not anxiously, for 
the news of Patuffa. He believed, with old 
Stefansky, that all would be well. 

The first person to bring the news was Keble 


PATUFFA 


23 


Fairbourne, Mama’s second cousin. Keble loved 
Patuffa, but she had persistently refused to con¬ 
sider him in any light save that of a comrade. 
Quite frankly she had said to him once: 

“ Keble, I like you awfully as a cousin when you 
are not overbearing, and as Mama’s trustee who 
would not cheat us very much, and as a friend of 
the family who would always ‘ stand by.’ But I 
can’t go any further than that — really I can’t.” 

“ I can wait,” he thought. “ I know how to 
wait.” 

And to-night as he saw her on the platform, 
acknowledging the applause from all sides, he said 
to himself: 

“ Patuffa won’t want me yet. But I know how 
to wait.” 

Chummy had a lukewarm regard for Keble, 
whose brains he respected. But he was a bar¬ 
rister, and the legal temperament did not appeal 
to the man who was heart and soul given over to 
the arts. But being Madame Mama’s cousin, 
Patuffa’s cousin, Keble formed one of the group 
in a detached sort of way; and a sincere love of 
music was held to redeem him, as Madame 
Tcharushin said, from entire perdition: 

His face lit up as he spoke of Patuffa’s playing: 

“ It was magnificent, Chummy,” he said. “ I 
could scarcely breathe from excitement and won¬ 
der. And such a reception! ” 

“ And how did she look? ” Chummy asked. 
“ How did she bear herself? ” 


24 


PATUFFA 


“ She looked like the Patuffa we know,” h v e 
answered smiling. “ Noble in her simple and 
direct bearing.” 

Madame Tcharushin was the next to arrive. 
She was in high spirits over the success of Patuffa, 
who was her godchild. 

“ Chummy,” she said, u I heard something 
about some champagne. And, let me tell you, the 
sooner we have it the better. For I am quite 
worn out with my emotions in being that child’s 
godmother. When I heard the last notes of the 
Andante — well, I cannot speak of it. And there 
she stood, firmly planted on the platform, like the 
little obstinate thing she is — and slightly sway¬ 
ing — like this, Chummy — it was so charming 
— and the applause would have done your heart 
good, as the champagne will do mine good.” 

Andrew Steyning, an exceedingly handsome 
man, came soon after Madame Tcharushin. He 
was a portrait painter, an R.A. who was courting 
Madame Mama, and always felt Patuffa to be a 
serious obstacle in his path. But to-night he had 
seen and heard her for the first time in her own 
rightful kingdom, and every trace of personal 
animus was merged in the generous appreciation 
of one artist for another. 

“ Chummy,” he said, “ she was inspired — and 
looked inspired. I wish I could have caught the 
expression in her eyes.” 

“ He’d never be able to catch any one’s expres¬ 
sion in any one’s eyes,” mumbled Madame 


PATUFFA 


25 


Tcharushin to Keble. “ I suppose that is why 
your so boring Royal Academy made him an 

R.A.” 

u Do take care,” he chided. “ Steyning will 
hear you.” 

“Take care?” she laughed. “I never take 
care. Where should I be if I was cautious? In 
your Criminal Court, and you bullying me, Keble. 
No, it is always too risky to be cautious.” 

Then at last came Mama and Patufta, Stefan- 
sky, and Irene. Patuffa gave Chummy a hug and 
her most beautiful bouquet. 

“ For you, dear Chummy,” she said, fastening 
one of the flowers in his coat. “ It was a shame 
you couldn’t come. But I’m sure you’ve had 
enough concerts and first appearances to last a life¬ 
time.” 

u All went well, Patuffa ? ” he asked. “ Pleased 
with yourself? ” 

Yes, she told him. But she could do better 
next time. No, she had not been nervous. Not 
for a single moment. She did not think of the 
audience. They did not come into it until the end. 
And then she had loved their applause, though 
she had nearly wept over it. The more they ap¬ 
plauded the more she had enjoyed it. It was 
thrilling. 

“ Power, you know, Chummy, power,” she 
laughed. “ You have always said I was insatiable 
for power. Perhaps I am.” 

But there was no real ring in her laughter. 


26 


PATUFFA 


She did not seem as elated as the occasion de¬ 
manded. He wondered what had occurred to 
subdue the joyousness he had expected of her. 
He asked Irene. 

“ I think it has something to do with Stefan- 
sky,” she whispered. “ Something went wrong in 
the artists’ room. And he was awfully cross in 
the carriage. Chummy, I do want to tell you 
Patuffa was splendid. And you would have loved 
to see her gratitude to the orchestra. They must 
all have known it was the real thing.” 

Chummy beamed. 

“ Good little Patuffa,” he said. u Let us hope 
she will always want to share.” 

“ Of course she will,” Irene said staunchly as 
she ran off to welcome some more of the guests. 

But Chummy looked across the room at Stefan- 
sky and saw that he was in one of his disagreeable 
moods. 

“ Is he going to be jealous of Patuffa, who has 
adored and hero-worshiped him all her life? ” he 
thought. “ Not possible. He was so proud of 
her before the concert.” 

But it was possible. Mama told him when she 
had him alone in a corner. She said that when 
the old volinist came into the artists’ room he had 
paid Patuffa homage in the most charming way, 
but that his pride must have been wounded at once 
by the entire indifference shown him by every one 
there except Patuffa and herself. The conductor 
was barely civil to him, Hendered, the manager, 


PATUFFA 


27 


extraordinarily casual, and one or two of the 
directors seemed only astonished that he was still 
alive. 

u From that moment everything went wrong,” 
Mama said sorrowfully. “ One can’t be sur¬ 
prised that he was terribly hurt, and I am sure he 
made a valiant attempt to ignore the slight. But 
he could not. It was too much for him. What 
could it mean? Doesn’t he count at all 
now? ” 

“ It would mean, dear Madame Mama, that his 
day was gone, that he was no longer a name to 
conjure with,” Chummy answered gently. “ The 
fate of many as the years go on. I have seen this 
happen so often. And you must remember he has 
been years away from England — something like 
twelve years. There is a new order of things — 
new conductors, new managers, new artists, new 
audiences. He has not nursed his public. He 
has wandered off to the uttermost ends of the 
earth, and he comes back forgotten, his place 
filled.” 

“ But it’s incredible,” she said, “ with a name 
like his, and a genius like his.” 

Chummy shrugged his shoulders. 

“ That’s the way of life, Madame Mama,” he 
said. “ But we must not have the evening spoilt 
for all that.” 

But it soon became evident that Papa Stefansky 
was going to spoil it. He did not find fault with 
Patuffa’s playing, but he grumbled at everything 


28 


PATUFFA 


else, the acoustics of the hall, the fool of a con¬ 
ductor, the wood wind, the first violin, the pigs of 
an audience, the G string on her fiddle. He was 
truculent and savage about the want of true 
musical understanding in England. He cast such 
a blight on the company that Keble Fairbourne, 
who now saw him for the first time, yearned to go 
and kick him out of Headquarters. Keble had 
the British characteristic of disliking all foreigners 
on principle, and here was one who roused his ire 
at once. 

“ What an infernal little worm, Cousin 
Marion,” he said in his lofty way, which could be 
so annoying at times, and often made Patuffa 
dance from rage. 

“ You’d better not say that to Patuffa,” said 
Mama. “ And to say it to me is bad enough, 
Keble. You know well we’re both devoted to 
him.” 

“ I know,” he said. “ I expected at least to see 
one of Fra Angelico’s angels playing on a heavenly 
rebec. Instead of which-” 

He stopped as Patuffa came up, and his face 
changed. 

“What were you saying, Keble?” she asked 
gaily. “ That I looked like an angel playing on 
a heavenly rebec? ” 

“ I used some of those words,” he said with a 
twinkle in his eye. * 

“ Very handsome of you, I’m sure,” she smiled. 
“ I gather then that you were pleased with me? ” 



PATUFFA 29 

“ Patuffa,” he said eagerly, “ I cannot tell you 
how proud I was of you. I was thrilled.” 

“ Funny old Keble,” she said. “ Fancy your 
legal soul being stirred. But wait till you hear 
Stefansky play. Come with me and talk to him. 
Now don’t stiffen up like your starched collar. 
Do forget for once that as an Englishman you are 
superior to every foreigner.” 

He let her lead him up to Papa Stefansky. 

“ Papa Stefansky, this is Cousin Keble,” she 
said. 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Cousin Keble,” Stefansky 
said, glaring at him in no friendly fashion. 
“ You look well. You keep well in your so 
beastly climate.” 

“ Thank you,” said Keble frigidly. “ I enjoy 
very good health in our climate.” 

“ No sun, no warmth, no true music, no true 
art, nothing at all in this so devilish England,” 
Stefansky said fiercely. “ I do hate it with all my 
soul.” 

“Why come to this so devilish England?” 
Madame Tcharushin asked. “ The world is 
wide, Stefansky.” 

He turned on her. 

“ Why are you not back in one of your Siberian 
prisons, Tcharushin?” he said fiercely. “That 
is the only place for damned revolutionaries, 
hein? ” 

“ Brute,” growled Keble Fairbourne under his 
breath. 


30 


PATUFFA 


But Madame Tcharushin only laughed: 

“ Don’t worry, Stefansky. Perhaps I’ll be 
there, or in the Schlusselburg before long. I’ll 
oblige you as soon as I can. Then you’ll have the 
chance of trying to contrive my escape. Stefan¬ 
sky has been a revolutionary in his time, Mr. 
Fairbourne, let me tell you; a revolutionary and a 
patriot.” 

“Patriot!” screamed Stefansky. “Country, 
I have no country. The world is my country. 
.That is the only country to have — the big, so 
big world.” 

“ Also,” continued Mme. Tcharushin calmly, 
“ he is one of the true friends of Russia, though 
you would not think he was any one’s friend to 
look at him now, would you? ” 

“ Ah, it is true, I am not very beautiful when I 
am cross,” Stefansky said, relaxing suddenly. 

“But why are you cross?” asked Irene lov¬ 
ingly. “ You must not be cross on such a night 
as this, when Patuffa has been distinguishing her¬ 
self and doing you credit.” 

He softened, and let her lead him away into the 
library. 

“ I am cross, my pet,” he said, “ because I have 
a so wicked heart.” 

“ No, you haven’t a wicked heart,” she coaxed 
him. “ You’re just tired and want some food, 
alone and without any fuss. Maria shall make 
you one of her little omelettes, and then you’ll be 
quite yourself again. I’ll call her up. She is 


PATUFFA 31 

awfully disappointed that you’re not staying at 
Headquarters.” 

“ An omelette! ” he exclaimed, his face bright¬ 
ening. “ Well, well, the old devil cook can make 
it if she likes. Perhaps I eat it.” 

Maria, the cook who had been in the family 
since time immemorial, was ready for any emer¬ 
gency. Rightly did Chummy call her “ a spacious 
'soul.” Nothing perturbed her in that household 
where she had helped to manage musicians for 
many long years. 

“ An omelette,” she nodded. “ Of course, Mr. 
Stefansky. It won’t be the first time I’ve made 
you one of my omelettes at twelve o’clock. And 
if it’s going to put you in a good temper, I’ll make 
any number of them. Cross, are you? Well, 
I’m cross. To think of you not staying here with 
us same as ahvays. Going to one of them hotels 
instead. Didn’t want to give trouble now you’re 
old? Well, aren’t we all old? And as for 
trouble, you make me laugh, Mr. Stefansky. If 
you was to live to be a thousand years old, you 
couldn’t be more trouble than you was in the old 
days and all of us pleased to have you. And 
would be now.” 

He was eating the omelette placidly when 
Chummy strolled into the library. 

“ Ah,” he said, u you are having your own little 
private supper. That is good for you, dear old 
friend. It will appease Maria, who, like us all, 
has been dreadfully disappointed that you are not 


32 


PATUFFA 


staying at Headquarters. She is right when she 
says it doesn’t seem natural.” 

“ Perhaps she is right,” Stefansky said, with a 
half smile. “ Perhaps I come, Chummy. Per¬ 
haps I don’t.” 

“ Well, your room is ready for you, and you’re 
welcome, as always,” Chummy said. 

He lit a cigar" and remained silent. He had 
come to tell Stefansky that it was not fair of him 
to spoil the evening for all of them and make 
Patuffa unhappy. But the old fellow looked so 
frail and tired that Chummy had not the heart to 
begin. He need not have troubled, for Stefansky 
anticipated him. 

“ I am being a beast, Chummy,” he owned. 
“ Very well I know that. And very well you 
know it. I am being ragingly jealous of little 
Patuffe. My breast is torn with pride and with 
jealousy. One moment I am proud, and the next 
moment I am wicked with jealousy. I am 
ashamed of myself. I am fighting myself. 
Jealous of my little Patuffe — imagine! Jealous 
of the other pigs — yes, that is quite right — but 
of Patuffe — never did I think I could be that 
great beast. But I fight, Chummy — you believe 
me, I fight.” 

“ I believe it,” Chummy said. “ Does it help 
at all to remember that the young must have their 
innings, and that we, the old, have had ours in 
some form or other? ” 

“ No,” Stefansky answered. “ That helps me 


PATUFFA 


33 


not at all. The omelette of Maria’s helps me 
much better. What you say is lovely language 
for a book, but very horrid for real life. Not 
at all I like it, Chummy. But you leave me alone 
and not bully me, and I fight.” 


II 

j 

When he reappeared in the music-room, every 
trace of his ill-humor had gone. He was charm¬ 
ing to Patuffa, benign to every one, and full of his 
old fun. He embraced Madame Mama when she 
told him that Steyning wanted to paint his por¬ 
trait. He embraced Steyning, much to that quiet 
man’s bewilderment. Steyning, who had been 
arrested by his wild appearance, had leapt to the 
belief that his portrait would make a great sen¬ 
sation in the world of art and that he would like 
to attempt it. But he rather wished he had not 
leapt to any belief until he saw Mama’s flush of 
pleasure on her charming face. And then he 
would willingly have submitted to the embraces of 
a Polar bear. 

“ Aha,” cried Stefansky, rubbing his hands in 
glee. “ So you paint my portrait, Mr. Steyning. 
And I allow it — yes, I allow it. For it is my 
duty that you should have this chance of doing 
your duty to the world. He paints my portrait, 
Madame Mama, and it hangs in the principal 
room of your so Royal Academia, and the good 


34 


PATUFFA 


sensible public come to see the so great Stefansky 
in his fame. They stand in rows, Patuffe, waiting 

— waiting — do you see them as at the Con¬ 
certs? — isn’t it so, Chummy? And listen, Irene, 
and do you listen also, Tcharushin, since you still 
are not in the Kara mines, where you ought to be 

— they say to each other: ‘ I heard him play at 
the London Philharmonic — I heard him play in 
Manchester, Birmingham, Leeds, Leipzig, Paris, 
Vienna, Berlin, Frankfurt, Buda Pest, Bucharest, 
Boston, New York, St. Petersburg, R t io, Buenos 
Ayres, Brighton, Java, Japan, Margate, Pacific 
Islands — anywhere — everywhere in the world. 
And he was wonderful. My God, he was won¬ 
derful.’ Yes, Patuffe, they will say that to the 
picture which this so celebrated artist will paint 
of the great and famous Stefansky. Hein, isn’t 
it so? ” 

He waved his arms about in all directions as if 
to illustrate the wide-spreading fields of his fame, 
and darted around like some child in joyous sport. 
His spirits, self-importance, and self-belief reached 
at one bound the level to which his friends had for 
long been accustomed. If Maria with her omelette 
began the cure, Steyning certainly completed it. 

Cousin Keble thought him even more detestable 
in a good temper than he had been in a bad one, 
and resented all the fuss that was being made of 
him. 

“ One would suppose, from the way he is carry¬ 
ing on, that he was the principal person of the 


PATUFFA 


35 


evening, instead of Patuffa,” he said to Mme. 
Tcharushin. “ And now there’s this ridiculous \ 
idea started about his portrait. Who wants to 
see a portrait of him? I don’t.” 

“ No one will want to see that portrait, when 
they see it,” laughed Mme. Tcharushin mis¬ 
chievously. “ The poor, good Royal Acade¬ 
mician, who is in love with your Cousin Ma- 
rionska, will no more be able to paint Stefansky’s 
fascinating ugliness than I could bully as you do, 
my friend, one of your victims in the Law Courts. 

I laugh to think of it. I say ‘ Ha! ’ No, the 
Steyning man should keep to his so dull and worthy 
Bishops. I suppose they are worthy. Aha, 
Camerad Keble, and I ask you to look at my 
friend Marionska, happy and blushing because 
the Steyning man has contributed to the success 
and happiness of the evening. And what have 
you contributed? Nothing. You grumble and 
look like a lofty rock that budges not one damned 
inch. And what have I contributed? Also noth¬ 
ing.” 

“ You contribute a few home truths, a useful 
reminder or two, and a good deal of gaiety,” 
Keble said. “ If I get a chance to say something 
civil to the Polish worm, I’ll take it.” 

“ You’ll please Patuffe if you do,” she said. 

“ And that is what you want to do, I suppose. 
Though I hope with all my heart you never will.” 

“ I know you hope that,” he said. “ But why 
do you hope that? ” 


36 


PATUFFA 


She shrugged her shoulders playfully. 

“ Because you are a rock, and I would never 
choose a rock for Patuffe,” she said. “ If you 
could — what do you call it? — blast yourself, 
then perhaps some of your fragments might ap¬ 
pear to me suitable for Patuffe. I only say per¬ 
haps. And certainly only a very few of the frag¬ 
ments.” 

“ You are truly encouraging,” he laughed, in 
spite of himself, as they went off to supper. 

At supper, by arrangement with Chummy, 
Madame rose to propose Patuffa’s health. She 
said: 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, Chummy having still 
some bronchitises left over, and Irene, our hostess, 
feeling a little shy, I rise to propose the health of 
the young lady who has the disadvantage of being 
my godchild. I think I have been chosen for this 
honor because I never could speak a long speech, 
and we want to be quick. For this reason we could 
not trust it to a man. A man, as you know, my 
friends, clears his throat, plants himself solidly in 
the floor, and puts his hands in his pockets and 
begins. He begins — but does he ever end? No, 
never. Well, this only will I say. Till to-night 
most of us here have only known Patuffe as a 
private personage, in former years with a pigtail. 
To-night we have seen her in all her glory as a 
platform beauty—and we are proud of her and 
proud of ourselves in possessing her. What words 
of praise can I find in the so beautiful English 


PATUFFA 


37 


language to express our feelings about her playing 
this evening? Aha, that is difficult and unneces¬ 
sary, too. For we all know that she had wings 
and used them and bore us with her in her up¬ 
ward flight. Was it not so? Her good health, 
then, and may her success, like the speech of a 
man, never, never come to an end.” 

Cousin Keble sprang up: 

“ I second that toast,” he said. “ Will you all 
kindly observe that I am clasping my eyeglass as a 
protection against my pockets, and that I have not 
cleared my throat? There is no danger from me. 
None need prepare themselves for slumber. Long 
life, long health, and long prosperity to Patuffa. 
We couple with her name that of the great and 
famous violinist Stefansky, to whom we all owe 
so much for his own gifts to us, and for his help to 
Patuffa, and for his chivalry in coming all the way 
from Prague to seal for her and us the triumph of 
this memorable night. Will Madame Tcharushin 
kindly take note that I am sitting down at once? ” 

He glanced at her half-humorously, as if to 
say: “ How is that for an attempt to blast the 
rock? ” 

Stefansky purred delight and every one was 
pleased with Keble’s tactful words. Patuffa 
beamed on him and said: 

“ Bravo, Keble. You unstarched your collar 
gallantly. I’ll play your favorite, Schumann’s 
Abendlied, as a reward. And when you’ve heard 
Stefansky, you won’t have any collar left at all.” 


38 


PATUFFA 


The evening ended up in a “ tutti ” of virtu¬ 
osity, enthusiasm, and joyfulness. Stefansky 
played one or two of Paganini’s Caprices and 
Wieniawski’s Polonaise and Legende. Patuffa 
gave them the Brahms Dances and the lovely 
Abendlied, and she and her old master, at Chum¬ 
my’s request, joined together in Bach’s Double 
Concerto for two violins. 

Stefansky, now in the happiest mood and in the 
highest spirits, helped to put Patuffa and her 
bouquets into her cab and said: 

“ You have deserved all these so beautiful cauli¬ 
flowers, my little devil’s child — and more. And 
listen, you come and see me to-morrow, and not at 
the Hotel, but here. I change my mind. I re¬ 
main at Headquarters. It is the only place for 
us all.” 


CHAPTER IV 


T HE full measure of Stefansky’s jealousy was 
revealed to Patuffa a few days later, when 
the generous praise which he himself had 
bestowed on her playing was confirmed by the 
musical critics. This chorus of applause was more 
than Stefansky could stand, and he punished 
Patuffa severely for her success and took the 
bloom off it. Even Mama did not know how 
greatly she suffered in those first days following 
on the Philharmonic, which should have been for 
her a time of happiness only. She carried herself 
bravely and cheerfully and was specially careful 
not to show any signs of depression before Keble, 
who came to congratulate her. He had cut out 
all her notices, and produced them one by one 
from his pocket-book with a pride which was 
entirely charming. 

“ You ought to be very pleased with your 
notices, Patuffa,” he said. 

“ I am,” she said, “ I never expected to get 
such good ones. Jolly, isn’t it? ” 

“ I should think that old Stefansky of yours 
must be mighty proud of you,” he said. 

“ He is,” she answered readily, for she knew 

well that when Keble put on an air of childlike in- 

39 


40 


PATUFFA 


nocence, he was preparing to do a little probing. 

“ That’s good,” he said. “ Though it struck 
me he had rather a funny way of showing it the 
other night.” 

“Indeed?” she asked. “And what makes 
you think that? ” 

“ Oh,” he said casually, “ various little trifles, 
probably only the intricacies of that mysterious 
complication, the artistic temperament.” 

“ Yes, I expect that was it,” she smiled. 

“ Misleading, no doubt, sometimes,” he sug¬ 
gested. 

“ Very,” she answered. “ Almost as bewilder¬ 
ing as the legal mind. A closed book, the legal 
mind.” 

“ And the artistic mind not closed enough,” he 
said. 

“ Probably not,” she laughed. “ But if it were 
closed and hermetically sealed, we should not get 
playing like Stefansky’s.” 

“ Probably not,” he said coldly. 

“ Didn’t you think his playing wonderful? ” 
Patuffa asked. 

“ I thought his playing very wonderful,” Keble 
answered. 

He nearly added: “ But I thought he himself 
was a detestable little worm.” 

He had the sense to remain silent. But she 
guessed his thought, for she turned to him, half 
fiercely, half friendlily, and said: 

“ Look here, Keble. I know perfectly well 


PATUFFA 


41 


what you are thinking about, and I don’t mind 
owning that Stefansky was not at his best the 
other night. But I ask you this: How would 
you have felt, supposing that you had been some 
great legal luminary in the past, and that when 
you returned to the arena of your former tri¬ 
umphs, you found yourself only slighted and ig¬ 
nored? That is w 7 hat happened to my old 
master in the artists’ room. Of course he suf¬ 
fered.” 

“ I am sorry, Patuffa. I didn’t know,” he said 
very kindly. 

“ Well, anyway, you helped to put things right 
the other night,” she said. “ I was pleased with 
you, and grateful to you.” 

“ I was pleased with myself,” he said. “ The 
cook’s omelette and Steyning’s portrait were not in 
it as compared with my healing powers. But 
about these notices. That is what I want to talk 
about. This Daily Telegraph one is a whopper. 
I’ve ordered two dozen copies of it to send to my 
friends. And every word true. Nuance — 
marked individuality — luminous inspiration — 
abandon — and all the rest of it. I’ve read it 
over and over again until I know it by heart.” 

It was the criticism which had made poor old 
Stefansky ragingly jealous that very morning, and 
Patuffa had scarcely dared to think of it again. 
But Keble’s kindness and enthusiasm heartened 
her, and she said: 

“ Yes, it is a jolly one. I don’t know quite 


42 


PATUFFA 


how I’m going to live up to it. But, Keble, it is 
really awfully nice of you to care in this way 
about my notices.” 

“ It would be very strange if I didn’t, consid¬ 
ering I have always cared so much about your 
happenings,” he said as he put the extracts back 
into his pocket-book. 

“Yes, I know,” she said uneasily. “But 
couldn’t you see your way to care less? I should 
be much obliged.” 

“ I am sorry I cannot oblige you,” he answered 
quietly, “ but I could not.” 

No, he could not. He had loved Patuffa for 
a long time. Even during his College days, when 
he was distinguishing himself in his examinations, 
and she, twelve years his junior, was distinguish¬ 
ing herself by quite exceptional naughtiness at 
school and at home, he kept her in some corner 
of his heart. And always his first question when 
he saw Cousin Marion was: “ Where is Patuffa 

and what is she up to nowf ” 

Then the years had passed, and his interest in 
her had ripened into love. Apart from her 
music, which alone would have attracted him, she 
appealed to him as no other woman had ever 
done. Her temperament which puzzled him, her 
uncertain moods which bewildered him, her inde¬ 
pendence which irritated him, her generosity of 
spirit which uplifted him, her elusiveness which 
left him outside her range — all combined to 


PATUFFA 


43 


keep him on the alert. He knew well that he 
was at a far distance from his goal. But he had 
a stubborn and persistent nature and meant to 
win her — no matter how long he had to wait, or 
how many obstacles he had to encounter. 

Madame Tcharushin rightly called him a rock. 
He was a rock of loyalty and faithfulness, but an 
aggravating one at times because of his domi¬ 
neering tendencies which he seemed unable to sup¬ 
press. His relationship to Patuffa and Mama 
and the practical interest he took in their affairs, 
and Mama’s own strong sense of clanship gave 
him the chance to assume proprietary airs, against 
which Patuffa rose in rebellion. But when he was 
at his best, free from all display of authority, 
she liked him very much as a comrade, and won¬ 
dered why she did not love him. 

But even as it was, she would not have had any 
harm happen to Keble that she could prevent. 
And she had an immense respect for his brains, 
took a deep interest in his career, and was proud 
to know that he was considered one of the coming 
men at the Bar. She was always amused by what 
she called his “ starch-collaredness and his curi¬ 
ous old-fashioned conventionality, especially 
where women’s freedom was concerned, struck her 
as exceedingly funny. 

“ You’re five generations behind the times, 
Keble,” she would say. “ Why not make it six 
whilst you’re about it? ” 

She liked to measure her wits with his and 


44 


PATUFFA 


to defend herself from one of his sly attacks. 

“ Ha, Keble, you thought you’d got me there, 
like one of your poor victims in the witness-box,’' 
she would say. “ But I’m much cleverer even 
than I look.” 

He was passionately fond of music, and scraped 
with superb happiness, but only a fair amount 
of ability, on the violoncello. But his greatest 
pleasure was climbing. His grim but rather fine 
featured face lit up with glowing enthusiasm when 
he spoke of the mountains he had ever adored; 
and at those moments, Patuffa, a child of wild 
Nature herself, knew him, understood him, and 
almost loved him. 

But those were passing moments, dispersing as 
swiftly as the mist from the mountain-side. 


CHAPTER V 


I 

O NE or two other little painful incidents 
occurred with Stefansky which put the seal 
on Patuffa’s distress. She remembered 
only too well her old master’s fits of uncontrolled 
rage in the past when new violinists from Prague, 
Vienna, Brussels, Berlin or St. Petersburg ap¬ 
peared on the horizon, and were impious and im¬ 
pudent enough to challenge his supremacy. But 
it had never occurred to her, when she wrote and 
begged him to come to London for her first Phil¬ 
harmonic, that she herself would be included in 
the army of enemies. The very idea was laugh¬ 
able that she, the devil’s child, could in any sense 
be regarded as the rival of a great man with a 
famous name like Stefansky’s. It was so absurd 
that her disappointment over his attitude towards 
her was at first toned down by her sense of fun. 
With playfulness one day she attempted to tease 
him out of his jealous mood when he was dis¬ 
agreeable about her engagement at Norwich. 

“ So they give you the Bach’s Fugue in C major 
to play,” he said. “ Never in your life could you 
play that properly.” 


45 


46 


PATUFFA 


“ No,” she said good-humoredly, “ but I can 
practise it until my arm drops off. Papa Stefan- 
sky, don’t you dare frown at me like that. You’re 
surely never going to put me amongst those pig 
dogs of violinists we all used to get so angry 
about in thfc past. Do you remember how we 
used to dance away our anger and indignation 
after you had sworn a sufficient number of Polish 
oaths? Now listen to me, I absolutely refuse to 
belong to that company of pig dogs. Do I look 
like one?” 

But playful remonstrance was of no use, and 
she gave it up when she realized that his jealousy 
of her was as deep-rooted as it had been in the 
case of those other interlopers. It was the be¬ 
ginning of the bitter lesson that success, however 
legitimate in itself, is nearly always achieved at 
the price of some one’s suffering; that jealousy 
springs up like some evil weed in the fairest gar¬ 
den, unexpected, unaccountable, ineradicable, and 
takes the bloom off the peach, the sweetness from 
the honied flowers, the freshness from the tender 
greenery. 

But whenever she was feeling hurt and in¬ 
jured by Stefansky’s ill-will, a vision rose before 
Patuffa of the old man coming into the artists’ 
room unwelcomed, unhonored, those men stand¬ 
ing around absolutely indifferent to him, and Hen- 
dered, better behaved than the others, but only on 
this side of being civil. Her quick and generous 
imagination leapt forward to the years to come 


PATUFFA 


47 


when she herself would be old and the doors 
would be barred to her. And how would she 
feel? No thrill for her then, no ecstasy, no ex¬ 
citation of spirit as now in these halcyon days of 
early recognition. Only deadness and dulness 
and disappointment, such as Stefansky was passing 
through. 

It was not to be borne. Something must be 
done to restore him to his proper place. Couldn’t 
Chummy do something — take St. James’s Hall, 
engage an orchestra, and give Papa Stefansky a 
glorious reappearance? No, it would not be fair 
on Chummy. He was too old and tired for the 
effort. Well, then, couldn’t she do something? 
Couldn’t she make a dash at something or some 
one? She laughed at herself. What influence 
had she, a beginner, feeling her way? None. 

She was practising the Bach Fugue at the time 
when this sudden impulse to do something for 
Stefansky overcame her. She put aside her violin 
and ran down from her little music-room to find 
Mama and learn whether she had any ideas on 
the subject; for Mama herself was sad about 
her old friend’s unhappiness and distressed that 
he w T as wounding Patuffa. Mama would probably 
have felt even more concerned if she had not been 
in love. She almost wished she were not in love; 
but the fact remained that Andrew Steyning was 
always in her thoughts, and that neither Patuffa’s 
career nor Stefansky’s jealousy could banish him 
from her mind. 


48 


PATUFFA 


Patuffa found her reading a letter. 

“ A note from Mr. Steyning, dear,” Mama said, 
blushing. “ He asks me to secure Stefansky and 
bring him for his first sitting at least, and to stay 
the whole time. I suppose he thinks Stefansky 
will be a handful.” 

“ And so he will be,” laughed Patuffa. “ And 
you are the right person to manage him. So you 
must sacrifice yourself, Mama, and go to your 
Steyning’s studio.” 

Mama smiled and blushed again. Patuffa went 
to the back of her chair and put her hands round 
Mama’s neck and kissed her ever so lightly on the 
cheek. 

“ Soon you will be going to your Steyning man’s 
studio altogether,” she said. “ I’ve got to lose 
you. It’s coming, I know.” 

“ As long as you want and need me, you will 
never lose me,” Mama murmured. 

“ But that means you would never marry the 
poor wretch,” Patuffa said with half a laugh. “ I 
should always want you, no matter what hap¬ 
pened to me in the way of careers or marriages. 
This comes of your having been such a brick of a 
mother to me all these years. It’s your own fault, 
darling Mama.” 

She stared at the ground a moment, her face 
a little tense and grim, but ended by looking up 
with a smile of tender indulgence. 

“Look here, Mama,” she said, “you mustn’t 
mind about me. You must go straight ahead 


PATUFFA 


49 


with your love affair, and I bestow my blessing 
on it. If you want Steyning, you ought to have 
him. You ought to have everything you want. 
When he asks you, or before — well, why not? — 
tell him you’re ready and that I’m going to behave 
myself and try not to be too jealous. Of course, 
no one could ever be worthy of you, but he has 
his points, I admit, and he is distinctly handsome 
and has no bullying proclivities like Cousin Keble 
has. And he has the sense to adore you — and 
you are awfully in love with him, aren’t 
you ? ” 

Mama closed her eyes, and looked hopelessly 
sentimental. 

“ Yes, Patuffa dear,” she said softly. “ But I 
don’t know how you have found out. I thought 
I had kept my secret safe from every one except 
your godmother.” 

“ Deluded parent,” Patuffa laughed tenderly. 
“ Why, you’ve blushed when you have even seen 
his name in the paper. But without that, haven’t 
I always known about you when I was only a 
little pig of a girl? ” 

Mama’s thoughts flashed like lightning to a sad 
day years ago, in their country home, when a lit¬ 
tle wayward, tempestuous tender-hearted girl 
had found her mother leaning over the piano, 
weeping over a tragedy in her married life, and 
had crept into her arms and rocked her to and 
fro, in a silence that had something healing in its 
deep solicitude and passionate concern. 


50 


PATUFFA 


“ Yes,” Mama whispered, “ you have always 
known.” 

“ Go ahead,” Patuffa repeated, “ and I’ll try 
and swallow him whole. Indeed I will.” 

Her mother caressed her hand. 

“ Such close friends we’ve always been, you 
and I,” she said. “ Sometimes I think I must be 
out of my senses.” 

“ Hasn’t one got to be out of one’s senses when 
one’s in love? ” asked Patuffa benevolently. 

“ At my age, too,” added Mama deprecatingly, 
“ forty-six.” 

“ And very beautiful,” said Patuffa with the 
pride she always had in Mama’s appearance. 
“ Beautiful and stately, as Papa Stefansky says 
so charmingly.” 

His name reminded her that she wanted her 
mother’s advice about the best means of helping 
him. So she banished Steyning abruptly, and they 
threshed out the problem of Stefansky long and 
earnestly, but could find no solution to the diffi¬ 
culty. It was Mama who finally had one of those 
sudden inspirations to which she was subject. 

“ Patuffa,” she said, “ why not consult that 
manager, Hendered? I should be frightened to 
death of him, but you never feared any one.” 

Patuffa sprang up, alert and eager. 

“ Mama, you’re not quite out of your senses 
yet, even though you are in love,” she laughed 
as she ran off. 

Mama left alone, thought: “ Could I ever part 


PATUFFA 


51 


from that child if it came to the point? Do I 
want to marry Andrew Steyning, or do I only 
fancy I want to? Do I really long for the haven 
of his love and the ordered serenity of his life? ” 


II 

Madame Tcharushin, who had escaped from the 
Kara mines twelve years ago, still lived in Coptic 
Street when she was in London. Her lodgings 
were the rallying-place of her exiled compatriots, 
and here she always returned after her many prop¬ 
aganda missions. 

She had led a varied life since her escape from 
the Kara mines in 1879, when she made direct for 
Mama’s old home at Dewhurst Hall, and where 
she had remained for a while to recruit from the 
privations through which she had passed in 
effecting her flight from the snow wilderness of 
Siberia. For a year or two she worked on a 
weekly paper which was issued by the Friends of 
Russia Society, and then went to Geneva to join 
a group of exiled Russians who were doing propa¬ 
ganda work from that center, and secretly raising 
funds for the revolutionary cause. She plotted 
and planned with unceasing activity to effect the 
escape of the political convicts in the far-off prison 
settlements in the Arctic regions. 

She heard of arrests, hangings, floggings to 
death, suicides in prison. Her dearest woman 


52 


PATUFFA 


comrade was hanged. Her noblest and finest 
friend, a professor of history in the Moscow 
University, went mad in the Schlusselburg Fort¬ 
ress. The moment came when she refused any 
longer to remain in safety; and she returned to 
Russia and lived an “ illegal ” existence, with a 
false passport, of course always in imminent 
danger of arrest. She did not lose a moment in 
finding out new leaders, new centers for active 
work. She traveled incessantly from place to 
place, organized local revolutionary groups, taught 
new converts, arranged methods of communica¬ 
tion, addressed secret meetings on river boats by 
night, in city tenements, peasants’ huts, and in 
the forests. The police were ever on her track, 
but she appeared to have a magic life, and had 
amazing escapes by means of the various ruses 
and resources of an experienced conspirator. 

She visited America at the moment when it 
seemed wise that she should withdraw herself 
from her hunters, and there she raised large sums 
of money from that ever generous country, and 
aroused a far-spreading interest in the Russian 
revolutionary campaign carried on so bravely and 
by means of so many broken lives and unflinching 
spirits. And now she was again biding her time 
in London, waiting for a fresh signal to return to 
Russia. 

Her name was a trumpet call to those who 
were devoted to the revolutionary cause. Her 
sufferings, her daring, her enthusiasm, and her 


PATUFFA 


53 


talents for initiative and organization were most 
inspiring to her comrades. 

In spite of all other demands on her time and 
sympathy, Pat Tcharushin, as Mama called her, 
had always kept up a close intimacy with her old 
school friend Marion. It represented her one 
little bit of private life, and she would have fared 
badly without it, though she prided herself on 
having, so she believed, no personal ties. But with 
all her own family long since dead, and most of 
her former colleagues in prison or exiled in the 
remote parts of Siberia, Mama and Mama’s chil¬ 
dren were her personal ties, kept intact from all 
revolutionary complications of thought and pur¬ 
pose. They were her recreation; and all crises 
in their circumstances, no matter of what nature, 
found her ready and at leisure with the whole 
of her interest and attention. 

Mama’s love affair amused her immensely; and 
when she came to report that Patuffa had been so 
charming and unselfish about it and had promised 
to try and swallow Steyning whole when his court¬ 
ing came to a climax, the little Russian woman 
laughed: 

“Well, my dear Marionska, you know I think 
you are quite and entirely mad, but since this is 
your idea of happiness, we must do what we can 
to help you. And it is good to hear that my god¬ 
child is playing up. I thought she would only 
be fierce and angry and want to tear the Steyning 


54 


PATUFFA 


man’s hair out. But you see I was wrong.” 

u Yes, you were wrong, Pat,” Mama said tri¬ 
umphantly. “ She is going to be my ally.” 

Mme. Tcharushin made a grimace. 

“ An ally with breaches of alliance, I should 
say,” she said. “ I cannot picture to myself that 
child swallowing him whole, but only in little bits 
and occasionally — very occasionally —- a long 
process, in fact.” 

“ Oh, I don’t say there won’t be ups and 
downs,” Mama owned. “ Those are only to be 
expected from Patuffa. And who knows, per¬ 
haps life might be dull without these familiar 
variations.” 

“ Aha,” said Mme. Tcharushin, “ and that is 
what I ask myself. Will Mama not too greatly 
miss those familiar variations when Patuffska is 
no longer the center of her thoughts. You take 
a new husband, Marionska, and you leave the old 
life behind. You may not think it so, but so it 
will be.” 

“ I understand that,” Mama, said, “ and that 
is why I am torn. That is why I have always 
retreated when Andrew Steyning pressed forward 
— until now. But the fragmentary sort of life 
I’ve been living ever since Patuffa went to Leipzig, 
makes me long for a sort of ordered serenity in a 
quiet haven of love.” 

A twinkle came into Mme. Tcharushin’s bright 
eye. 

“ Ordered serenity,” she repeated. “ That is 


PATUFFA 


55 


a very good description of what your life will be 
with the Steyning man. I can see it — aha, so 
ordered — aha, so serene! And you are quite, 
quite sure that is what you want? Not that one 
can ever be sure about anything. I take that 
back. I wish merely to remind you, Marionska, 
that he is a prosperous man, and that prosperity 
is generally very dull. He also is dull like most 
handsome and distinguished people. His por¬ 
traits are dull. When I saw that portrait of the 
Bishop last year, you remember, I said it was too 
dull even for a bishop. And now he is going to 
try and make a picture of our poor Stefansky. 
Well, all I say is ‘ Ha! ’ But if you want this 
admirable man, it is only right you should now 
have your heart’s desire. You have given up all 
your best years to Patuffe and the boys. They 
have their careers, and will seldom be home from 
the sea, and Patuffe has her career, with the ball 
at her feet for her to kick high. No use to wait 
until she is married. . . .” 

“ If I could have seen her married first, I should 
feel far happier,” put in Mama. “ Married to 
Keble, for instance, who has always adored her, 
and is as faithful and reliable as a rock.” 

“ My child, do not be ridiculous,” Mme. 
Tcharushin said. “ Patuffska is not ready for a 
rock, and never will be. Who on earth wants a 
rock at twenty-three years old? It is one thing 
for you at forty-six to cry out for a haven of or¬ 
dered serenity. And quite another thing for 


56 


P A T U F F A 


Patuffska to clamor for a rock at her age. And if 
she did marry Keble, a rock, or any one else, not 
a rock, what difference w r ould it make to your 
plans? None. She might be back at any time, at 
any moment. I see her now bursting into the 
house. I hear her screaming out, ‘ Mama. I’ve 
come back — I have left my boring husband! — 
I am free again! ’ Don’t you see and hear her? 
No, Marionska, no use to wait. If you want the 
so tremendous joy of a second consort, no use to 
wait.” 

Mama laughed. She saw the scene with her 
mind’s eye. 

“ Take her help while she is in an angelic mood, 
my friend,” continued Pat. “ She is happy with 
her success and busy with her career and has not 
too much time to be thinking about the strange 
vagaries of her Mama. Be very wise and crafty 
and spring now. It is not too late to spring at 
forty-six. It is never too late to make a fool of 
oneself.” 

So she teased Mama, but always lovingly; and 
her old school friend took everything from her 
without turning a hair. But she did say to her: 

“You know, Pat, you are entirely mistaken 
about Andrew Steyning being dull. You don’t 
seem to understand the difference between dulness 
and restfulness.” 

“ Is there a difference? ” asked Mme. Tcharu- 
shin innocently. “ I think not. But here comes 
Father Kuprianoff. We will ask him. He 


P A T U F F A 


57 


knows everything. Kuprianoff, is there a differ¬ 
ence between dulness and restfulness? ” 

Old Kuprianoff, the father of the exiled Rus¬ 
sians in London, now very aged, sank down into 
the arm-chair which w T as his and his only. His 
smile still reflected the sweetness of his disposition, 
which long years of imprisonment and long years 
of exile and disillusionment had failed to sour. 
He smiled his greeting to Mama whom he had 
always greatly admired, and said: 

“ Tcharushin asks a stupid question, does she 
not, Madame Mama? But she only pretends to 
be stupid sometimes to amuse herself or tease 
some one. Has she been teasing you? Well, 
well, I can tease her, and tell her that it is always 
restful in this so dear little room in Coptic 
Street, but always, always dull without Madame 
Mama.” 


CHAPTER VI 


P ATUFFA went off to Norwich the next day, 
where she played Bach’s Fugue, which 
Stefansky had said she could never play, 
and Tschaikowsky’s Concerto in D. She had a 
great success, and traveled back to London with 
two of the leading singers of the day who had 
been taking the solos in the Lohengrin and Tann - 
hauser selections. They were charming to her 
and excellent company. She thought of what 
Chummy was always saying, that one of the great¬ 
est joys of success was the open door, the right of 
entrance, into the temple of fellowship. It was 
a flushed, happy, excited little Patuffa, unbur¬ 
dened with any haunting thoughts of Stefansky’s 
jealousy and Mama’s inspired idea that stepped 
on to the platform at Liverpool Street Station and 
found Keble waiting for her. 

“ Hullo, Keble,” she said. “ What are you 
doing here? ” 

“ It looks as if I were meeting you,” he smiled. 
“ Cousin Marion said you were probably coming 
by this train, and so I took the enormous liberty of 
interfering with your independence. That is a 

sin, I know. But I’ve had a trying day in Court, 

58 


PATUFFA 59 

and thought a little ‘ breeze ’ with you might do 
me good.” 

“ No breeze possible with me this evening,” she 
laughed. “ I’m in the best of good tempers and 
spirits. Such a splendid time I’ve had! And the 
Fugue went well, in spite of what Stefansky 
said.” 

“ Ah, and what said that amiable gentleman? ” 
asked Keble. 

Patuffa chuckled and covered her tracks. 

“ He said it was one of the most intricate pieces 
ever written for the fiddle, and he was right,” she 
said. 

“ And possibly also that he was the only 
virtuoso who could play it,” he ventured. 

u Oh, how clever, how clever you are!” she 
mocked. “What a brain, what a brain! I am 
glad we’ve got a brain like yours in the family. 
When did you say you were thinking of accepting 
the position of Lord Chief Justice? Don’t let 
England wait.” 

They had a cheery drive to her home, Keble 
enjoying her fun and good spirits and teasing, and 
Patuffa thinking that he was not such a bad old 
starch-collared thing after all. He left her at 
the door, said he would not come in as he was 
dining with them the next day and they must not 
be burdened too greatly with his distinguished 
company, and started off. He heard her calling 
him back, and took two or three of his long strides 
to reach her side. 


60 


PATUFFA 


“ Keble,” she said gravely, but with mischief 
in her eyes, “ don’t let England wait, I implore 
you.” 

She found Mama working at her embroidery, 
and a cosy little supper awaiting her as usual, and 
always that warm welcome which had been hers 
ever since she could remember, and that never- 
failing sympathy with all her concerns. As she 
poured out her Norwich experiences, hurling 
every detail at Mama’s head, almost hurling 
every note of the Bach Fugue and the Tschaikow- 
sky Concerto at that patient and beautiful head, 
Patuffa suddenly thought how truly awful life 
would be without Mama. The words rushed to 
her lips, but she kept them back. And her pass¬ 
ing alarm was soon forgotten in the remembrance 
of her enjoyment of her success at the Norwich 
Festival. 

“ Unmarred by any one’s jealousy,” she said. 
“ That’s what I have reveled in. Free to be 
happy and pleased with myself, because no one 
was being wounded — through me.” 

Mama looked up. 

“ Yet you should have heard Papa Stefansky 
speak of you this morning,” she said. “ With 
pride and admiration and all his old kindness. 
He fights his jealousy the whole time, I am sure. 
I thought he looked so frail and ashen — a lonely 
and pathetic old man, like Liszt was at the end, 
you remember, superseded, left, in a sense. I 


PATUFFA 61 

was touched to the heart again, as I was in the 
artists’ room.” 

Patuffa said nothing, but she left off munching 
chocolates and stared straight in front of her. 
Her own success, her own career vanished from 
her thoughts. Stefansky’s need thrust itself im¬ 
periously on her generous mind. Mama’s in¬ 
spiration came to her afresh; and it was borne in 
on her instantly what she could do and would do. 

The next day she sped on her way to Hen- 
dered’s office, and arrived there in the best of 
good moods with herself and the world, and pre¬ 
pared to face with fearless equanimity a whole 
battalion of Hendereds. 

u If I win, I win,” she said. u If I lose, I 
lose.” 

Hendered at once sent for her when her card 
was brought to him by the smiling and pleased 
old clerk on whom she had beamed like true spring 
sunshine. 

“ Delighted to see you, Miss Patuffa Rend- 
ham,” Hendered said. “ Pray be seated. Glad 
to have the pleasure of congratulating you again 
on your success the other evening. A real tri¬ 
umph — and one that was deserved.” 

“ Thank you very much,” Patuffa said, smiling 
happily and settling down at her ease. “ It was 
most exciting and stimulating. It has made me 
feel years younger.” 

“ Ah, you need it, don’t you,” he laughed. 


62 


PATUFFA 


“ The burden of years lies heavy on you. Well, 
it is a good thing you’re being sustained for your 
next Philharmonic ordeal — the Brahms, isn’t it? 
I hope you will repeat your success, or exceed it. 
I am sure you will. I hope that again you’ll want 
to go into hysterics from joy, and will only be 
prevented by remembering that you reserve your 
weeping for your rages.” 

“ It’s true,” she nodded. “ Such rages! You 
should see them.” 

“ I probably shall before I’ve done with you,” 
he said, leaning back in his chair and smiling. 

He felt at leisure, and restful in her presence. 
Again he felt he liked her. Her entire unself¬ 
consciousness pleased him. It was evident that 
she was not nervous of him, or unduly impressed 
by his importance. He was an influential man; 
and most artists, even those of long standing at 
the top of the tree, showed a marked respect for 
his position: for he had irons in all directions, 
and to a certain extent the careers of great 
virtuosi were in his keeping. But this little new¬ 
comer into the world of music was by no means 
paralyzed by an appropriate sense of awe in find¬ 
ing herself in his sanctum. He was all the more 
amused because he supposed she had come, of 
course, as all came, to ask something of him. 
They all wanted his special personal favor and 
interest directly they had got one foot on the 
rung. They all immediately thought they had 
swung themselves up to Olympus. Now, what 


PATUFFA 


63 


did Miss Patuffa Rendham want? Probably an 
immediate American tour. Well, it would be his 
own fault in this instance. He had praised her 
— broken his rule and praised her. Always a 
mistake. Far wiser to be entirely impersonal and 
unmoved. 

Then he said, perhaps a little stiffly: 

“ I suppose you have come to talk about Amer¬ 
ica. Every artist thinks he or she can immedi¬ 
ately go there and pick up a handsome fortune. 
Is that it?” 

To his surprise she answered: 

“ No, I haven’t come about that, Mr. Ren¬ 
dered, though I must say a handsome fortune 
sounds pleasant.” 

“Well?” he asked, wondering. “Birming¬ 
ham Festival, Leeds Festival?” 

She shook her head. 

“ It is just this,” she said, her face suddenly 
becoming acute and her manner intensely earnest. 
“ I’ve come to ask you in secret about my old 
master, Stefansky. I am so unhappy about him. 
I felt the other day that he was out in the cold. 
No one noticed him except you. And even you 
scarcely spoke to him. He didn’t seem to count.” 

“ He doesn’t count,” Hendered said abruptly. 
“ Stefansky’s day is done.” 

“ But he is a great artist still, isn’t he? ” Pa¬ 
tuffa asked. 

“ His day is done,” repeated Hendered, shrug¬ 
ging his shoulders. “ The last time he was in 


64 


PATUFFA 


England he was an absolute failure — antiquated 
— out of date — banal. Tragic, I admit, but 
what would you? That is life. His time is over. 
He had a long and splendid spell.” 

“Couldn’t you bring it back again?” she 
pleaded with an intensity disturbing in its pain¬ 
fulness. 

He eyed her with curiosity, a faint smile of 
cynicism playing around his mouth. 

“And pray, what is that old rascal to you? ” 
he said. “ Why should you be concerning your¬ 
self about him — you who have your own young 
life to live ? ” 

Patuffa’s eyes went to a pin’s point. She for¬ 
got that she was facing a manager. But even if 
she had remembered, it would have made no dif¬ 
ference. 

“ Stefansky isn’t an old rascal,” she exclaimed 
angrily. 

He was intrigued by her sudden fierceness, and 
liked her none the less as she sat defying him. 
The experience was entirely new to him, and he 
positively welcomed this variation from the old 
rut, this departure from the old patterns which 
he knew by heart, and which at times bored him 
to extinction. 

“ You ask what he is to me,” she went on. 
“ He is my darlingest friend in the world after 
my mother and Mr. Tyrell. I am what I am to¬ 
day because of him. When I was a little girl —• 
an odious little girl, too — I broke his Strad — 


PATUFFA 


65 


think of that! — and he forgave me because I 
loved music. He first taught me — it is true he 
nearly murdered me in the process but I never 
minded that. My earliest Master — think of the 
honor! ” 

And in a few telling words, she sketched the 
scene when she stood on the rug where he placed 
her, played the Andante of the Mendelssohn Con¬ 
certo, and waited for his verdict as to whether she 
could become a professional player. She said it 
was the only time in her life she had been scared, 
and that, if he had said she was unfit for the pro¬ 
fession, her heart would have broken. She re¬ 
membered saying to herself that if Papa Stefan- 
sky decided that violin-playing could not be her 
career, the only thing left for her to do was to 
go and drown herself in the fishpond at 
home. 

“ So you see, Mr. Hendered, what he meant to 
me,” she ended with. “ He has always meant 
the same. Ask my mother if you like. She 
loves him as much as I do, and we wouldn’t have 
a hair of his head hurt, any more than he would 
at any time during all these years have hurt a 
hair of mine.” 

There was a silence for a moment. Hendered 
drummed with his fingers on his desk. With his 
mind’s eye he saw the little eager child on the rug 
awaiting the verdict of the famous musician and 
making up her mind to drown herself in the fish¬ 
pond at home if the great Stefansky pronounced 


66 


PATUFFA 


against her. The vision moved him strangely. 
And what moved him still more was the thought 
that she had kept the remembrance of this crisis 
in her life so intense and acute that it had the 
power to pierce even his impenetrability. 

“ I understand,” he said at last, gently, and 
with no sneering smile on his face. “ You have 
made it all quite clear to me. Stefansky is lucky 
to have won and kept your friendship — and your 
gratitude, Miss Rendham. And you yourself are 
lucky to be able to continue to give it. Gratitude 
is amazingly rare. I can frankly say it has never 
come my way — probably because I never gave 
any myself. Do you know, I don’t remember 
having been grateful to any one. I took every¬ 
thing that came to me in the way of help or favor 
as a matter of course.” 

“ Perhaps you did not get much help,” said Pa- 
tuffa benevolently. “ In that case there would 
not have been much to be grateful for.” 

“ Well, that’s true enough,” he laughed. “ I’m 
much obliged to you for easing my conscience. I 
assure you I really had to forge my way through 
mostly alone.” 

There was another pause, and then he asked: 

“ What is it you expect me to do for your old 
Stefansky? Come, let me hear it without — I 
was going to say without fear. But I take that 
back; for I don’t suppose you have ever feared 
any one, have you?” 

“ No,” answered Patuffa firmly. “ No one in 


PATUFFA 


67 


my life. This is what I want; I want you to give 
Stefansky an appearance at the Philharmonic. 
Please do, Mr. Hendered. He is still a very 
great artist. I am sure you would think so if you 
heard him. Perhaps he was not well when he 
was in England the last time, but he is in perfectly 
splendid form now. I wish you could have heard 
him play the Paganini Concerto the other day. 
It was magnificent. Do give him an appearance. 
It seems cruel that he should be passed by.” 

“ But, my dear young lady, you must know 
you are asking an impossibility, even if I were 
eating my heart out to engage him,” Hendered 
said, spreading out his hands and letting them 
shrink back as if in token of utter powerlessness. 
“ The dates have all been filled up long ago for 
this season and the next — look here, you can 
see for yourself! — and here’s your own second 
Concert in a month’s time.” 

He added, for the sake only of rallying her: 

“ You wouldn’t like to give that up to him, I 
suppose ? ” 

And as he spoke he thought, “ I’d like to see 
her or any of them making such a sacrifice. I’d 
put a hundred to one on that horse.” 

But Patuffa sprang up in glee. 

“ Of course I would give it up to him,” she 
exclaimed. “If you can do it that way, please 
do, Mr. Hendered. Do let him take my place! ” 

Her bright eyes were shining; her face was 
radiant. There was no mistaking the joyous 


68 PATUFFA 

eagerness of her manner, or the sincerity of her 
heart. 

Hendered stared at her in downright astonish¬ 
ment. 

“ Why, I only said that out of devilment,” he 
answered. “ You must be mad, or else a fool. 
The ball is at your feet, and all you’ve got to do 
is to kick it whilst you’ve the chance. You’re not 
going to be such a duffer as to leave it alone and 
let some other fellow on to it.” 

“ I have all my young days to kick it in,” Pa- 
tuffa said. “ I’ll gladly take the risk. And I’m 
not at all mad, thank you, and my worst enemy 
never called me a fool. I don’t feel one either.” 

He laughed, in spite of his astonishment. 

“ Perhaps gratitude is madness,” he said. 
“ Anyway, your scheme is impossible. It would 
not be for our benefit, let alone yours, to substi¬ 
tute Stefansky for you. The musical world has 
been interested by a new and promising young 
lady violinist — yourself. It will expect to hear 
you again this season — and at once. That is 
our tradition, and we cannot depart from it.” 

She took her little satchel from his desk and 
prepared to go. 

“ Well,” she said simply, “ I’ve lost. I said 
to myself, if I win, I win, and if I lose, I lose. 
Good-by, Mr. Hendered. You have been very 
good to bear with me. I must think of some¬ 
thing else for Stefansky. If one thinks hard 
enough, things come.” 


PATUFFA 


69 


He was touched by her quiet but acute disap¬ 
pointment and her unselfish determination. 

“ Look here, Miss Rendham,” he said abruptly, 
“ you haven’t lost. I will do what I can for 
Stefansky. He was a most gifted, impassioned 
player in the past, and if he had not gone wander¬ 
ing all over the world and absented himself for 
long intervals, he might have kept his place to 
the last. And I will admit that he did not have 
a very good Press or public on his last visit, in 
’86. I looked up his appearance here. He was 
entirely outshone by Sarasate and Paderewski 
that season. Musical enthusiasm was mopped up 
by these people; and in comparison with them and 
their new musical outlook he seemed, as I told 
you, out of date. But few have had his fire, and 
none, since Paganini, his almost demoniacal per¬ 
sonality. I will try and put him in somehow. If 
there is a loophole of a chance, I promise you 
faithfully I will. And I will do this be¬ 
cause . . .” 

He paused, shrugged his shoulders and added 
with a little deprecating smile: 

“ Because gratitude is rare, and when one finds 
it in the desert of life, one stops to contemplate 
it and refresh one’s spirit.” 

For a moment Patuffa could not speak. She 
could only blink, her curious habit when she was 
overcome. At last a smile broke over her eager 
face, and she said: 


70 


PATUFFA 


“ I cannot tell you how much I thank you. It 
is almost unbelievable.” 

“ The old man shall have his innings again,” 
Hendered said, “ I never break my word.” 

“ No, I know that,” Patuffa said. “ Every one 
tells every one else that. I was always hearing 
that in Leipzig. And Auer told me in Mos¬ 
cow.” 

He was pleased that she knew his record for 
good faith. 

“ Ah,” he said, half to himself, u that is some¬ 
thing to have won then. Almost as good as 
gratitude — what do you think? ” 

“ You’ve won mine,” she said joyously. “ Now 
I can really enjoy anything that comes to my own 
little net. It is not easy to enjoy when you see 
some one you honor, and to whom you owe so 
much, out in the cold — and suffering. You’ve 
made me so happy that I feel as if I wanted to 
dance all the way home.” 

“ You can begin now if you want to,” he 
laughed. 

She held out her hand to bid him good-by, and 
was gone in a moment. He had the impression of 
a bird on the wing. He stood exactly where she 
had left him, with wonderment on his face, such 
wonderment as breaks over the countenance when 
Nature reveals some sweet and hidden vision of 
“ the glory and the freshness of a dream.” 

“ Patuffa, Patuffa,” he said slowly. “ A curious 
name.” 


PATUFFA 


71 


Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and 
Patuffa’s head was thrust in. 

“ You will not ever let Stefansky know I asked, 
will you?” she said fiercely. 

“ I am not generally considered a fool, and I 
don’t feel one either,” he answered, repeating her 
own words. 

She laughed, nodded, and vanished as swiftly 
as before. 

But Hendered still stood thinking about her. 
Without knowing it, he echoed the observations 
made by the drum: 

“ She won’t always be like this. She’ll be like 
them all in time, spoilt and selfish and self-cen¬ 
tered, not caring a hang what happens to old or 
young, wanting all the applause for herself, want¬ 
ing all the bouquets, wanting everything. But 
whilst it lasts, my Heavens, what a relief! ” 


CHAPTER VII 


K EBLE arrived at the Rendhams’ house one 
evening tired and irritable. He knew after¬ 
wards that it would have been wiser if 
he had gone straight back to his rooms in Jermyn 
Street, lit the pipe of peace, studied his Alpine 
photographs, and got his nerves rested. 

He had been briefed for the defense in a case 
which was attracting a great deal of public at¬ 
tention, a case of alleged misappropriation of 
public money, and he was worn out with a par¬ 
ticularly trying day in Court. His alertness and 
brilliant resourcefulness in examining the un¬ 
fortunate witnesses had exhausted his strength 
but not his authoritative way, which Mama at 
once sensed and with which she attempted to deal 
in her own charming way. He produced from his 
letter-case a criticism of Patuffa’s playing at the 
Norwich Festival, showed it to her with the gen¬ 
erous pleasure he always took in her successes, 
but then immediately afterwards said that he did 
not think it suitable that she should go off on 
these concert engagements alone. 

“ I have told you so many times, Keble,” she 
admonished gently, “ that it is of no use to in¬ 
terfere with Patuffa’s freedom. Patuffa likes her 

72 


PATUFFA 


73 


freedom more than anything on earth, and has 
always had it. She comes and goes as she pleases. 
.When she wants me, I go with her; when she 
doesn’t, I stay at home. She used to make her 
own arrangements, and carry them out from the 
age of eight or nine years onward. I laugh now 
when I think of it, but I did not laugh then. It 
is her nature. She was born independent, and 
independent she will remain. She can perfectly 
well take care of herself in any circumstances. 
She knows how to protect herself and others. If 
you want to win her love, you will never win it 
by trying to edit her. You knowd am very fond 
of you, Cousin Keble, and very proud of you, and 
sometimes I think I would dearly like to have 
you as a son-in-law; but at other times I think 
you are the last man in the world to make Patuffa 
happy — or be made happy by her.” 

“ Perhaps I shall learn, Cousin Marion,” he 
said, so humbly that Mama, as always, was 
touched by him. 

“ Perhaps you will, Keble,” she said kindly. 

“ You must know that it is my great caring for 
Patuffa which makes me at times what she calls 
domineering,” he said, half to himself. u I sup¬ 
pose it is only at times that I am trying? Or is it 
always? ” 

“ No, not always,” laughed Mama softly. “ By 
no means always. But do bear in mind how your 
father ruined your mother’s life by that quiet 
bullying which broke her spirit.” 


74 


PATUFFA 


“ Yes, I remember,” he said, and lapsed into 
silence. Then he lifted his head, smiled one of his 
charming smiles and added, “ But I cannot imagine 
Patuffa’s spirit broken by me or any one — can 
you? ” 

“ No,” Mama answered. “ I have no fear 
about that. Patuffa would escape long before it 
came to that. Pm glad she is like that. I am 
glad she is free and dashing, and with a bit of 
the wild bird in her. I hope she will never lose 
it, whatever happens to her. But at least she will 
never lose her loyalty — that Pm sure of. Her 
loyalty to Stefansky in the midst of her own suc¬ 
cess touches me every time I think of it. So pa¬ 
tient and gentle she has been with him! ” 

“ Unbearable little worm,” Keble blurted out. 

Mama flushed. 

“ I won’t have you say that,” she said indig¬ 
nantly. “ Stefansky-” 

At that moment Patuffa dashed into the room, 
nodded to Keble, gave her mother a hug and 
cried excitedly: 

“ Mama, Pve w r on, Pve won. Hendered is go¬ 
ing to try and put Papa Stefansky into a Philhar¬ 
monic. And he’ll keep his word. He’s a man 
of his word is Hendered. Isn’t it great? Pm 
so happy I don’t know what to do with my¬ 
self.” 

They both forgot Keble in their joy. Patuffa 
gave an account of her interview, said she got on 
with Hendered capitally, and that he had been 



PATUFFA 


75 


extraordinarily kind, fat, old, oily thing though 
he was! She made no mention of the sacrifice 
she had proposed, and dwelt on no details, but 
merely said that Hendered had refused at first, 
and then, when he remembered Stefansky’s glori¬ 
ous past, he had relented and promised to do what 
he could. 

“ Won’t it be simply splendid if he plays at the 
Philharmonic? ” she said, throwing her arms in 
the air and dancing around. “ And it was your 
idea, Mama, don't you forget that! ” 

“ Yes, but I stopped at home safely under 
cover, and you went forth as the warrior bold,” 
laughed Mama. “ Weren’t you one little bit 
nervous? ” 

“ No, of course not,” she scorned. “ What 
could the fat, oily one have done to me? Sent me 
flying, that’s all. Instead of which, he was most 
frightfully kind, and when I told him he had made 
me so happy that I felt I wanted to dance all the 
way home, he said I could begin at once if I 
liked.” 

Very charming Patuffa looked in her unselfish 
excitement, flushed, eager, and triumphant in a 
cause not her own, and yet her own, since pro¬ 
tecting those she loved was part of her very na¬ 
ture. With her quick mind’s eye she saw little 
old Papa Stefansky no longer sad and fallen from 
high estate, but in the fulness of his former pride, 
bowing to a wildly enthusiastic audience. If Keble 
had but glanced at her face, he would have been 


76 


PATUFFA 


arrested by the nobility of its joyous expression, 
and would have sympathized with her happiness 
at the right moment and might have advanced a 
step or two in the direction of his goal. But he 
missed his chance, sat mute, sulking and detached, 
stared into the fire, and very deliberately lit an j 
other cigarette. He considered that every one 
made an absurd fuss over that wretched Stefansky, 
and he certainly was not going to contribute to 
the burnt offerings. 

Suddenly Patuffa became aware of his “ non¬ 
cooperation.” 

“ You are a pig, Keble,” she said, fixing her 
eye on him with a certain amount of amusement. 
“ Why can’t you be a Christian and say you’re 
glad also ? ” 

“ I’m not in the least glad,” he said stub¬ 
bornly. “ I’m perfectly indifferent.” 

“ Oh, well, Stefansky w^on’t die from that,” 
she snapped. 

“ No, I imagine not,” he said dryly. “ It would 
take a good deal more than that to annihilate that 
little mountebank.” 

An angry flush mounted to Patuffa’s cheeks, and 
her eyes went to a pin’s point. Mama saw those 
signs, knew that there was going to be a scene, 
had an immediate feverish longing for Steyning 
and u ordered serenity,” and retired to cover in 
her bedroom. 

Keble had so far checked utterance to Patuffa 
of what he really thought of Stefansky; but now 


PATUFFA 77 

that he had let one fatal word loose, he liberated 
others with something like a glad relief. 

“ I cannot for the life of me understand why 
you should trouble yourself about Stefansky,” he 
continued. “ A man like that can perfectly well 
take care of his own opportunities. It seems en¬ 
tirely unsuitable and unnecessary for you to take 
this office on yourself. Not dignified, not de¬ 
sirable ! ” 

Patuffa remained silent. Perhaps her silence 
irritated him the more. She had stooped to pick 
up the Norwich Festival article which had fallen 
on the floor, glanced at it and tossed it with de¬ 
liberate negligence into the fire. 

“Have you done?” she asked at last, chal- 
lengingly. 

“ No, I haven’t done,” he said. “ I wish to 
tell you that I have inquired about this contempt¬ 
ible and conceited old man, and have learned 
nothing favorable about his life. He has no 
character. He is unfit to be associated with you 
in any w T ay, and intimacy with him will give to 
people an entirely false impression of you, Pa¬ 
tuffa.” 

“ You don’t mean it? ” remarked Patuffa with 
quiet but mock concern. “ Dear, dear me, what 
terrible and afflicting news! ” 

It was Keble’s turn to flush with anger. 

“ You don’t know the world,” he said impa¬ 
tiently, “ nor does your mother, otherwise she 
would think with me that your well-meant efforts 


78 


PATUFFA 


on his behalf this morning have been most un¬ 
fortunate and ill-advised. I am sure that Mr. 
Hendered, who is a man of the world, would think 
the same, even though he yielded to your request. 
Why concern yourself about Stefansky at all? He 
is not worth it — self-centered and ungenerous 
little worm — could not even rejoice in your suc¬ 
cess — had to be jealous even of you! Do you 
suppose I didn’t see it? ” 

She turned to him with the fierceness of a ti¬ 
gress. 

“ No, I don’t suppose that,” she sneered. 
u You’d see the worst in every one, and only the 
worst.” 

“ Look here, Patuffa,” he said, changing his 
tone suddenly to one of pleading, “ be patient 
with me, be reasonable. I am only speaking the 
truth because I care so much — you must know 
I care. I want so terribly to protect you.” 

“ Care,” she exclaimed, stamping her foot. “ If 
you cared for me you'd understand. You can’t 
understand. All you know how to do is to bully. 
But you’ll not bully me — that’s quite certain. 
And as for protecting me, I don’t want to be pro¬ 
tected. I’ve told you so scores of times. I can 
protect myself and Mama too, perfectly. In¬ 
quired about Stefansky, have you? Well, let me 
tell you you’re not worthy to have the privilege 
of being in the same room with him — a great 
musician with gifts from the gods. You make 


PATUFFA 


79 


me hate you, Keble. I can’t breathe the same 
oxygen with you.” 

She made a dash for the door and was gone. 
Alone in her room, she wept from rage. 


4 


CHAPTER VIII 


I 


S TEYNING had taken on himself a bewilder¬ 
ing task when he suggested that Stefansky 
should sit for his portrait. If that fitful per¬ 
sonage turned up at all, it was generally at the 
wrong hour, when some one else was expected or 
was already in possession of the field. His moods, 
too, were various and uncertain. Sometimes he 
would begin by being the so great Stefansky whose 
portrait every one would wish to behold. Yes, 
yes, thousands from every quarter of the globe, 
from Java, China, New Zealand, Japan, South 
Africa, would be waiting in queues to gaze upon 
the countenance of the so famous Stefansky. But 
perhaps in the middle of that same sitting he 
would exclaim that it was all waste of time, and 
that no one in the so beastly world would care 
now for Stefansky's picture. And at the end he 
would recover himself and rub his hands and say: 

“ Aha, Mr. Steyning, it is a great and grand 
subject you have for your brush.” 

It certainly was a remarkable subject, and if 
Steyning could have caught Stefansky with a Tar- 

tini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata expression on his coun- 

80 


PATUFFA 


81 


tenance the picture might well have startled and 
electrified the most unimpressionable observer. 
But Steyning had fallen into a rut of Bishops and 
Heads of Colleges and Masters of the Hunt, and 
Stefansky was beyond his range. In her secret 
heart Mama knew that, though she encouraged 
the distraught artist by pretending all was going 
well. She shepherded Stefansky to the studio, and 
at Steyning’s urgent request remained on “ point 
duty ” throughout the sittings. Steyning could 
never have managed him without her help. As 
she sat, a charming and restful presence bending 
over her embroidery, he glanced at her with ever- 
increasing longing, and vowed that he must have 
her, and that Patuffa, who was the obstacle in his 
pathway to Mama’s affections, must be made not 
to count. 

How she was to be made not to count was not 
clear to him, but he suddenly felt a courage which 
would be able to cope with all difficulties. He 
did not understand Patuffa, and indeed was 
vaguely frightened of her. It was this vague fear 
which had hitherto restrained him from proposing 
earlier to Mama. He had not been sure that he 
could handle her masterful daughter. But the 
moment came when all remembrance of her as 
an obstacle was swept away. 

One morning Stefansky in his most perverse 
mood arrived at the studio on the wrong day, and 
found that Steyning was painting the portrait of 
a financial magnate’s wife. As the magnate had 


82 


PATUFFA 


commissioned a whole series of family portraits 
it was certain that he was a client to be cherished 
rather than insulted, either in person or by proxy. 
Stefansky could not have been expected to take 
this little detail into consideration. All he knew 
was that here was a “pig” of a woman inter¬ 
fering with his plans and his portrait and his 
convenience. He rushed into the studio in a great 
rage, waving his arms wildly around, in a man¬ 
ner to disturb any one’s nervous equilibrium. 
Truly he looked like a devil unloosed, as he 
shouted: 

“ How dare this peeg of a woman take the 
place of the so great Stefansky? Send her away 
this moment, or I drag her out of the room by 
her so false hair.” 

It is difficult to say what would have occurred 
if Mama had not suddenly appeared on the 
horizon, advancing like the gracious charmer she 
always was, with healing in her wings. 

“ Papa Stefansky,” she said in her most win¬ 
ning tones, “ what are you doing, and what are 
you saying? Now, did I not tell you yesterday 
that this was not your morning here? And did 
we not arrange that you and I should go together 
to the auction sale of old fiddles at Puttick and 
Simpson’s? When you did not come and fetch 
me I guessed what had happened.” 

“ Madame Mama, Madame Mama, I am deso¬ 
lated,” he cried. “ I kiss your hand in the so 
great desolation of my speerit. To have forgot- 


PATUFFA 


83 


ten, Madame Mama! What can the great Ste- 
fansky do to win Madame Mama’s forgiveness? ” 

“ Play to us,” she answered with sudden in¬ 
spiration. “ It is the only thing you can do to 
earn the forgiveness of all of us.” 

And turning to the magnate’s wife she said: 

“ When you hear him play, you will only re¬ 
member that he has played.” 

So indeed it proved. Stefansky seized his 
violin, without which he never ventured into the 
world, and the magnate’s wife passed from alarm 
and vexation and offended dignity to wonder and 
pleasure and gratitude and enthusiasm, as she lis¬ 
tened to his amazing rendering of w r ild gypsy 
dances, followed by his dreamy tenderness in one 
or two of the Nocturnes of Chopin. 

And later, when Steyning apologized to her, 
she said: 

“ No, no, you must not apologize. I’ve had 
one of the most wonderful experiences in my 
life.” 

The triumphant ending of the incident was that 
she wafted Stefansky away in her carriage and 
took him home to lunch. 

Mama and Steyning were left alone, and now 
came Steyning’s moment. He sank down on the 
sofa beside her, captured her hand and put it to 
his lips. 

“ You came at the right time for me, which 
indeed would be any time, as you well know,” 
he said. “ You mean so much to me, Marion — 


84 


PATUFFA 


everything. Ever since I’ve known you, nothing 
has seemed worth while without you. Work has 
lost its zest, and ambitions have lost their thrill. 
I used to be happy and contented in this studio. 
It is only since you have been sitting here, shedding 
your sweetness around me that I have realized 
the full measure of my loneliness. Don’t let me 
go back to that, Marion. Say that you love me 
and that you’ll have me. You know I love you. 
I know you love me. We want each other. We 
could be so happy together. Think of it — how 
happy we could be! ” 

Mama closed her eyes. But she was smiling 
radiantly. 

“ And I am sure I could be some comfort to 
you,” he went on softly. “ I know I could. I 
could be a real father to your boys. There would 
be a home that was still their own — their very 
own — waiting for them when they return from 
their voyages. And as for Patuffa — well, I would 
do my utmost best to make her happy. I would 
learn to understand her and win her love. You 
would teach me, and it would not be possible for 
me to fail because of my deep, deep love for you.” 

Mama said not a word. She was torn as ever 
between Steyning and Patuffa. The love note 
in his voice thrilled her. The thought of the 
happiness which might be hers, stirred her. But 
her love for Patuffa had grown even richer as 
the years went on. It had increased as she watched 
the unfolding of her turbulent child’s character; 


PATUFFA 


85 


the generous impulses ever fresh and flowing; the 
loyalty unimpaired and permanent; the imperious¬ 
ness unabated but honestly combated: the deep 
unalterable affection on which Mama knew she 
could always reckon: the lovableness which had 
acquired a touch of tenderness in addition to its 
former irresistible charm. And now that the mo¬ 
ment had come when Mama had to make a de¬ 
cision, the very thought of a changed relationship 
with this child of her heart was disturbing. A 
changed relationship. That was what she had to 
face. Could she face it? 

Yet there was another side to the picture. 
Mama’s longing for “ ordered serenity,” about 
which Mme. Tcharushin always teased her, was 
a real one. Her upbringing had been in prosper¬ 
ous, settled circumstances, and it was natural 
enough that she should be tempted by the vision 
of a calmer life than that afforded by exciting 
events, tumultuous upliftments, and all the varia¬ 
tions of circumstance arising out of Patuffa’s pro¬ 
fessional career. And Patuffa, though entirely un¬ 
selfish in many ways, was always exacting mentally 
and spiritually. No wonder then that Mama had 
yearned sometimes, when she was most tried, for 
a haven of rest in some one’s heart. And it had 
so chanced that when she was feeling that need 
acutely, Andrew Steyning, a quiet, calm, and rest¬ 
ful nature, had come into her life. She had 
known instinctively that he, and only he, could 
give her what she wanted — or thought she 


86 PATUFFA 

wanted. She knew it now when she listened to 
his pleading. 

And suddenly Patuffa was blotted out of the 
picture. And Mark and Eric on their warships 
followed suit. Mama’s present responsibilities 
and duties fled like pale ghosts before the day¬ 
light. New joys, new interests, and a new happi¬ 
ness took their place. She saw herself here — 
in Andrew’s home — her own new home. She 
was working whilst he painted. She was stir¬ 
ring up his ambition when he flagged. She was 
guarding him, loving him, and being loved in a 
way she had hoped for and had never experi¬ 
enced in her former marriage with Patuffa’s 
father. 

Andrew’s voice—ah, what a tender, harmoni¬ 
ous, persuasive voice! — recalled her from her 
visionings. 

“ Give in, dear Marion — there is nothing to 
fear. Why should you fear? Why should you 
hesitate? We love each other. I need you, you 
need me — there is no barrier. I’ll stand by the 
boys and Patuffa as if they were my own, and 
win them all.” 

Mama gave in. 

He sprang up, caught her in his arms, and they 
forgot the world in the ecstasy of love. Not the 
love as the young know it perhaps; but none the 
less wonderful, perhaps more wonderful, when to 
passion and desire is added the hunger for tender 
comradeship and ripened friendship which bring 


PATUFFA 


87 


balm and healing for past mistakes and sufferings 
and dispel the phantom of loneliness hovering 
always around the dim pathway of those who 
wander alone as the years go on to their mys¬ 
terious ending. 

They arranged to celebrate their engagement 
— which was to be a short one — by spending 
the next day in Steyning’s little country house 
above Streatley, on the lovely Berkshire Downs. 
So Mama threw over all her duties, abandoned 
her home, left Patuffa to see after herself when 
she returned from Leeds, and went off with her 
artist. 

It was one of those delightful mornings which 
the late autumn vouchsafes us: a bracing fresh¬ 
ness in the air with a touch of early frost, and 
sunshine illumining the red and golden tints of 
the trees by the riverside and in the copses and 
plantations on the Downs. They drove up to his 
house, baited there to lunch, and then wandered 
on the heights, amongst the junipers, and looked 
down on the far-spreading plain, and the thin 
silver line of the river in the distance, and the 
villages nestling in a wealth of greenery. The 
larks sang for them. For them the peewits took 
great and lofty flights, wheeling far and high. 
For them fragrances were wafted from the pine- 
woods, and shadows of the clouds stole over the 
slopes and vanished as mysteriously as they came. 

Nature was theirs. The world was theirs. Love 
was theirs. 


88 


PATUFFA 


II 

Patuffa returned from Leeds to find the house 
deserted, the maid out, and no Mama waiting to 
welcome her and share with her a tempting little 
meal. It was such an unusual occurrence that she 
wondered whether Mama had been taken ill and 
was expiring on the top of her bed. She dashed 
up to the bedroom, but found no expiring parent 
there. 

Then something prompted her to look in 
Mama’s best hat box. She noted that her latest 
and smartest headpiece was missing. She glanced 
in the wardrobe and observed that Mama’s new 
coat and skirt had vanished, also her new umbrella 
with which she had endowed her a few days be¬ 
fore. She laughed, Mama had evidently gone on 
a private spree and dressed herself up in her most 
engaging clothes. 

“ Gone off with my future stepfather,” she said. 
“ That’s it. Taken advantage of my absence. 
What a parent! What a world! How am I 
going to swallow my stepfather? I must, 
though.” 

She was so amused that it never struck her to 
resent having been forgotten. She was imperious 
and demanding in many ways, but never ill-tem¬ 
pered or lofty in the ups and downs of domestic 
life. She took things as they came and enjoyed 
herself in circumstances when a really spoilt 


PATUFFA 


89 


woman might have shown irritation or anger. 
Her masterfulness manifested itself in mental, 
emotional, spiritual forms, never in material is¬ 
sues. 

So now, thoroughly pleased with her successful 
appearance in Leeds, much intrigued over Mama, 
and quite convinced that Pleasure and not Trag¬ 
edy was keeping her away from the domestic 
hearth, Patuffa settled down, robed herself in her 
mackintosh, against which the most elegant Pari¬ 
sian teagown still had no chance in her favor, and 
foraged for sardines, onions, bread and cheese, 
and coffee. She was still enjoying these dainties 
when the front bell rang. 

“ My erring mother returned,” she thought, 
and ran upstairs munching a large bit of cheese. 

She opened the door not to her erring mother, 
but to Keble Fairbourne. 

“ Hullo, Keble,” she said, not unkindly. 

“Hullo,” he said, a little sheepishly; and he 
stood hesitating on the threshold. 

u Come in,” she smiled. “ Be not afraid. I 
am not going to quarrel with you. Quarrels are 
silly and only fit for your old law courts. I sup¬ 
pose you have come to apologize for your hate¬ 
fulness about my poor old Stefansky.” 

“ No,” he answered stubbornly. “ Not exactly 
that.” 

“ Then perhaps you’ve come to say that you 
undertake henceforth not to poke your nose into 
my affairs nor abuse my friends? ” she suggested. 


90 


PATUFFA 


“ No, not exactly that either,” he replied with 
a faint smile on his face. 

“Then what on earth have you come for ?” 1 
she said good-naturedly. “ You are a funny, 
hateful old thing, Keble.” 

“ I have come with tickets for the Lyceum, for 
the Merchant of Venice, for to-night,” he said. 
“ I thought that if you would condescend for once 
to breathe the same oxygen with me, you and I 
and Cousin Marion might go and enjoy Irving 
and Ellen Terry.” 

Patuffa laughed. 

“ Mama is out,” she said. “ Perhaps she 
would have gone. I don’t know. I should love 
to go, as you know. But I just won’t. I have 
not arrived at that pitch of reconciliation yet, 
specially as you show no signs of repentance.” 

“ I cannot repent for wishing to take care of 
you,” he said stubbornly. “ I might possibly re¬ 
pent for a wrong choice of words. Would that 
answer the purpose? ” 

“ No,” she said. “ You’d think you had scored 
a triumph. I’m not coming.” 

“Then I shall have to go alone?” he asked 
naively. 

“ It looks like it,” Patuffa answered. “ Do you 
want to have a cup of coffee before you go? I 
don’t mind doing that much for you.” 

“ No, thank you,” he said, and without another 
word he turned on his heel and disappeared down 
the street. 


PATUFFA 


91 


She stood thinking of him, with a half puzzled 
look on her face. Why did she like Keble at all? 
She did like him sometimes. When he had not 
one of his bullying and interfering attacks on, she 
liked old Keble very much. She hoped to good¬ 
ness that liking would never grow into loving. 
That did happen with some people. But it was 
not probable that it would happen with her. Good 
gracious, think of it! What an appalling come 
down to surrender to the dogged persistence of 
Keble after exciting little affairs with thrilling 
people like that composer in Leipzig and that 
“ Parsifal ” in Berlin and that strange and allur¬ 
ing poet in Moscow. 

“ You would be a fool, Patuffa,” she said aloud. 
“ Don’t be a fool.” 

“ I won’t,’” she answered aloud. u I’m quite 
safe. If I were ever to feel the slightest, the very 
slightest impulse of something more than friend¬ 
ship towards him, it would perish at once from 
something he did or said — like his recent out¬ 
burst against Papa Stefansky.” 

But he had come to apologize. The theater 
tickets were his way of apologizing, for he knew 
well that the theater rested her more than any¬ 
thing. Kind of Keble, really. He was kind when 
he was not hateful. But she was glad she had 
not succumbed to the invitation, tempting though 
it had been. For the house was very lonely. The 
silence and loneliness pressed on her. 

What would she do if she were really left alone 


92 


PATUFFA 


in the world? What would she do, how would 
she bear it if Mama were to marry soon — very 
soon? The prospect was serious enough, but the 
actuality would be awful. 

For a long time she sat in her music-room, 
passive and inert, until a string on one of her vio¬ 
lins broke, as if to remind her that something re¬ 
mained which no one could take from her — her 
career, her ambitions, her passionate joy in her 
art. She sprang up to put on another string, 
tuned, and from tuning passed into improvisation, 
and from improvisation into Bach’s Chaconne, 
which was down for her next concert. 

And the moment of soul loneliness slipped by. 


Ill 

Mama returned happy, radiant, and entirely 
irresponsible and unrepentant. She was en¬ 
tranced with her stolen day and aglow with her 
secret, which she wanted to share with Patuffa the 
moment she entered the house. Yet, as she went 
upstairs to the music room, she wondered how 
her child would take the news she had to give her. 
Would she be unselfish, tender, joyous, light¬ 
hearted, indulgent, fierce, furious, sad, heart¬ 
broken? Which? Mama was so uplifted that 
nothing that any one said or looked or did would 
have mattered much. 

Patuffa was still practising when a knock came 


PATUFFA 


93 


at the door. Mama never upset people’s nerves 
by breaking into a room or disturbing their pri¬ 
vacy. And she invariably arrived when one 
wanted her. Yet perhaps that was easy to do, 
since she was always wanted. Patuffa’s face lit 
up as she called out: 

“ Come in, darling Mama.” 

She added when Mama presented herself: 

“ All your best things on. You do look a per¬ 
fect dear. As I always tell you, I am frightfully 
glad that I have a beautiful Mama. Such an 
asset in one’s life.” 

“ Patuffa, I forgot all about your meal and 
about Jane’s day oh,” Mama said, smiling irre¬ 
sponsibly. “ I forgot everything. But I’ve had 
a heavenly time in Berkshire.” 

“ So very glad,” nodded Patuffa. “ Alone, I 
suppose. Alone in Berkshire. It sounds most 
stimulating.” 

Mama laughed happily. 

“ Andrew and I went to his lovely little house 
above Streatley. And we had a tramp over the 
Downs. I have something to tell you.” 

“ I believe you’ve got married in my absence,” 
Patuffa said. 

“ No, not that,” Mama answered, blushing. 
“ But listen, now.” 

She told her what had happened in the studio 
after Stefansky’s departure, and she ended 
with: 

“ And oh, my little Patuffa, I’m so enjoying all 


94 


PATUFFA 


the love-making and all the happiness — I dare¬ 
say it sounds ridiculous to you at my age — but 
I’m divinely happy.” 

Then Patuffa was so kind and tender that Mama 
nearly w T ept from added joyfulness. No one 
could be good enough for Mama, Fatuffa said. 
But if that wretched, cheeky, presumptuous, mon¬ 
strous wretch was going to make her happy, that 
was the only thing that mattered. 

“ If he is good to you, I’ll try not to hate him 
hugely,” she said. “ And if he’s unkind, I’ll settle 
my stepfather soon enough. Trust me for 
that.” 

Mama looked up and saw Patuffa already on 
the defensive — as much on the defensive as she 
had been as a child when some one or something 
had to be fought for or dealt with summarily. 
And because she felt that she could trust her abso¬ 
lutely, and rely entirely on her understanding and 
loyalty, Mama broke down the only barrier that 
there had ever been between herself and Patuffa, 
and in the excitement of the moment unfolded to 
her the story of her married life, with its sadness 
and disillusionment and the culminating tragedy 
of her husband’s disgrace and suicide. Such a 
brave, pitiful account, without one unkind or ac¬ 
cusing word. Never could the remembrance of 
the dead have been more tenderly and generously 
evoked. 

“When the dead man is praised on his journey, bear, 
bear him along, 

With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets.” 


PATUFFA 


95 


But Patuffa read between the unspoken words. 
The memories of her childhood flooded her with 
an avalanche of understanding. The things she 
had laid no stress on because they meant nothing 
to her, the things which had puzzled her but were 
beyond her, now stood out clearly as signposts 
for the guidance of her mind as well as of her 
heart. 

Mama had suffered in her first marriage. 
That was clear. And now that she had the 
chance of a happiness denied to her in her early 
years, nothing must stand in the way to prevent 
it from being realized to the full. Patuffa vowed 
silently that no word or deed of hers should dis¬ 
turb the harmony of her mother’s joy. 

But alone in her room that night she lay awake, 
grim and tense. She knew now that she had lost 
Mama. Henceforward their old relationship 
would be changed utterly. She had always been 
Mama’s principal concern. Eric and Mark had 
received their full share of love, of course, but 
between Mama and herself there had ever been 
a close and secret bond. And the boys had been 
so much away, first on their training-ships and 
then on their men-o’-war, that they had never 
counted as daily friends and companions in every¬ 
day life. Whereas Mama and she had been to¬ 
gether year in, year out, in Leipzig, in Berlin, in 
London, on tour — all times and everywhere, 
with only intermittent absences from each other. 

And now the bond was going to break — had 


96 


PATUFFA 


broken. She was alone, and would have to stand 
alone. She was deserted. She would be no one’s 
concern. Oh, that wasn’t fair to Chummy and 
Irene. She would always mean something in¬ 
timately to them. She could always reckon on 
them. But they had each other. She would al¬ 
ways be the third. She would belong to no one. 
She could belong to Keble if she wanted. But 
she didn’t want Keble. She did not want any of 
the men whom she had dispatched on their ways. 
She would be alone, deserted, important to no 
one — only to Keble — and she did not want 
Keble. 

Into her remembrance stole Goethe’s lines, 
which her old German master in Dresden, gentle 
old Herr Riemer, had often quoted to her when 
he was speaking to her of the dignity of the Art of 
Music, of its great mission, and of the sufferings 
of spirit which all true artists must pass through 
in striving after their ideals of service and ex¬ 
pression. She had wondered at them, as a child, 
but now she knew their import: 

“ Wer nicht sein Brot mit Thranen ass, 

Wer nicht die Kummervollen Nachte, 

Auf seinem Bette weinend sass, 

Der kennt Euch nicht, Ihr himmlische Gemachte.” 


CHAPTER IX 


I 

C HUMMY and Irene being away, it was to 
Madame Tcharushin that Patuffa went for 
some kind of comfort. Madame had al¬ 
ways the power of restoring buoyancy to her god¬ 
child and many other people as well. She had 
suffered so much, and had been through so many 
crises and dangers in the course of her career as 
a revolutionary, that in her presence small per¬ 
sonal details of personal life retreated into unim¬ 
portance, and one instantly felt it to be absurd to 
make any fuss over the happenings of peaceful 
and safe everyday life. It was not so much what 
Madame Tcharushin said, but what she stood for. 
And her sense of fun, which must often have 
saved herself and her fellow revolutionaries from 
despair in their darkest hours, added to her equip¬ 
ment of usefulness in the role of consoler. 

Madame Tcharushin was of the type that does 
not change. She had the secret of eternal youth 
— a secret of the spirit. Her bright eyes, her 
vivacious manner, her slight, active figure, her 

short stature, the eagerness of her expression, the 

97 


98 


PATUFFA 


firm but graceful poise of her small head on her 
neck, gave an immediate impression of permanent 
youthfulness, capable of any initiative and endur¬ 
ance. It was strange that the ups and downs of 
her adventurous life had not robbed her of her 
attractive freshness. But it hadn’t. That was all 
there was to say about it. 

Patuffa ran up the stairs to Madame Tcharush- 
in’s rooms, armed with her violin, in case old 
Father Kuprianoff wanted to hear some Russian 
tunes, especially a strange little Ukrainian love 
song which Tatiana Dubrovina used to sing to 
him in the past, whilst she rocked herself back¬ 
wards and forwards in her chair. Tatiana had 
died in the Schlusselburg fortress, but her memory 
was sweet and green in Coptic Street. 

Kuprianoff had not yet arrived to occupy his 
armchair; and Madame was alone, and busy with 
the samovar. 

She laughed when Patuffa gave her the latest 
news of Mama. 

“ Aha,” she said, “ so it is now definitely settled 
that Marionska will marry her Steyning man? 
Well, my child, let us hope that she will have bet¬ 
ter luck with her second marriage. No, she was 
not happy in the past, but she was always brave 
and charming. She has been brave with you, too, 
Patuffska, for you were a handful, weren’t you? 
I think you are still one, isn’t it so? Well, well, 
we are all handfuls to those we love best. But 


PATUFFA 


99 


now you have this great chance to be very good 
to Mama. You will take it, of course, if I know 
anything of my godchild.” 

“ I will try to take it,” Patuffa said, making a 
grimace. “ I should be a pig not to. I think it is 
about time that Mama got free of me. But I 
shouldn’t be human if I didn’t grudge giving her 
up to that man, now that everything is settled. 
And, Pat, what on earth does she see in him? 
Tell me that out of your wisdom! ” 

Madame Tcharushin spread out her hands and 
shrugged her shoulders. 

“ My child,” she said, “ what does any one see 
in any one? Who was it said that the best part 
of the love between friends, as in a work of art, 
cannot be explained? But you are right. You 
would not be human if you did not grudge giving 
Mama up to the admirable and dull man. Very 
naturally also you must be wanting to tear his 
hair out. I likewise feel the same primitive and 
healthy impulse. Only we shall not show it very 
much. We do it in secret, you and I together — 
in harmony, as you and I have always been. If 
I am in Coptic Street, then you come to Coptic 
Street, and together you and I tear out his hair in 
grand great bunches, not handfuls. If I am in 
Russia, well, then, you come to find me in a far, 
far off little village where I speak to the peasants 
of liberty, and a new life of freedom and happi¬ 
ness, and there again you and I together tear out 
his hair! We act together, and behave ourselves 


> 

9 > 


100 


V ATUFFA 


together — isn’t it so? — fellow conspirators.” 

Patuffa nodded. She was a little comforted 
already. 

“ And what is it of a sacrifice, my Patuffska? ” 
Madame went on. “ It is so little, so nothing 
when you come to think of it. You have her 
alive, even though she marries her Steyning man. 
She is in the world. You will be able to reach 
her. It is so little, so nothing.” 

She went to her desk and drew out a piece of 
paper which she scanned with a painful scrutiny 
which banished her strange youthfulness for the 
moment; and Patuffa read on her face the record 
of a life of tragic happenings. 

“ Listen, Patuffska,” she said. “ This is the 
fragment of a letter I had yesterday from the 
mother of a friend of mine, a very dear comrade 
who met her death in Siberia two months ago. 
She committed suicide in prison. And her mother 
writes to me: 

“ ‘ I never grudged her to the cause. I 
schooled myself not to grudge her. It took time 
and strength, but I ended by being joyful for her 
sake that no claim on her that I, as her mother, 
might seem to have, had prevented her from fol¬ 
lowing her chosen path. She loved me, and if I 
had traded on her love she might have been by 
my side now, peaceful and prosperous, and taking 
her due part in the high social circle to which she 
belonged. It is my consolation and my pride also 
that I sped her on her way to fulfil herself on her 


PATUFFA 


101 


own lines. For me, the end came at the begin¬ 
ning. When I gave her up, I knew I gave her up 
for ever, and that I must never falter in the sacri¬ 
fice, so that she might not have the burden of my 
sadness added to the heavy load she had taken 
on her young shoulders.’ ” 

She put the piece of paper back in her desk, and 
Patuffa looked out of the window in silence. At 
last she murmured: 

“ I am ashamed, Pat.” 

“ No, not ashamed, Patuffska. No need to be 
ashamed. But if we have the sense to be helped 
by comparisons, small miseries can find and keep 
their own measure. That is all. And now for 
the samovar. It is not often that you and I find 
ourselves alone together in these important and 
grown up days of yours, when you stand on a plat¬ 
form and make strange scratchings before a large 
audience. Na, na, very beautiful scratchings. 
That I say. But now we have the time, I want 
not to hear only of Mama’s love affairs, but of 
Patuffska’s. It is amusing, isn’t it, that Mama 
gets married again, and that her daughter remains 
a solitary and deserted old maid at the so very 
great and declining age of twenty-three years? 
It is a tragedy and no mistake. What have you 
done with some of those admirers of whom I 
have heard from Mama?” 

“ Cast them all off,” laughed Patuffa. “ Hated 
them all, one by one. Made awful scenes with 
them and they decamped, of course! ” 


102 


PATUFFA 


“ And now I learn that you have been angry 
with your Cousin Keble,” Madame said. 

“ I was not going to have him abuse Papa 
Stefansky,” Patuffa said truculently. 

“ That I can well believe,” Madame smiled. 
“ All our reputations are safe in your keeping, 
dear Patuffska. I feel most comfortably that I 
could commit any sin, however monstrous, and be 
quite sure of your praise and protection. But 
tell me, has Keble also decamped? ” 

“ Oh, no, he hasn’t decamped,” Patuffa 
laughed. “ He never will decamp. He turned up 
last night with tickets for the Lyceum, look¬ 
ing as stubborn as a rock, but meaning kindly 
and intending to propitiate me in his own 
queer way. But I didn’t go, though I was 
dying to.” 

“ Well, well,” said Madame, “ he is a rock of 
stubbornness and faithfulness. But, as I told him 
the other day, the only thing for a rock to do is to 
blast itself into a thousand fragments, and then 
some one could perhaps pick up the best bits. 
You, perhaps ? ” 

Patuffa shook her head. 

“ I don’t think so,” she laughed. “ I should be 
so dreadfully afraid of the choice fragments 
forming into a solid rock again. Wouldn’t 
you? ” 

“ Yes,” said Madame. “ A rock is a frighten¬ 
ing structure, a dangerous building. I trust that 
you will rebel against a rock, as you have rebelled 


PATUFFA 103 

against other dangerous things in life in your so 
wicked past.” 

“ Helped on by you, Pat,” Patuffa reminded 
her. 

“ Not much. You had it in you, my child. 
How I used to laugh when you ran away from 
your so many schools. A rebel by nature. If 
you could have been a revolutionary Russian, with 
all the injustices of your country tearing at your 
heartstrings, you would have done great things 
for Russia. Well, well, that was not for you. I 
would not have wished it for you. If you had 
been Russian, yes. I would have molded some¬ 
thing out of such tempting, anarchist material. 
I could not have resisted. But being English you 
were safe from the wiles of your godmother. Ex¬ 
cept in small matters, like an unblasted rock, for 
instance! No, we leave rocks and peaceful har¬ 
bors for Mama, and we do nothing to spoil her 
enjoyment of those so very boring possessions. 
We help her, and we say not too much of what 
we think of the excellent man and his so respecta¬ 
ble pictures. Can he paint Stefansky? No, 
never! Ha, I laugh to think of it. But that is 
another secret. We must pretend he can do it — 
to please Marionska. But — ha! ” 

A mischievous twinkle was in her bright eye as 
she elaborately put her finger to her lips. 

“ Hush, hush,” she whispered. “ We must re¬ 
spect the ordered serenity.” 

“We’ll try,” laughed Patuffa. “ But — ha! ” 


104 


PATUFFA 


They were still laughing when old Father 
Kuprianoff crept into the haven he loved so well, 
followed by Moshinki and Tchemodanoff, who 
were on their way home from the Reading Room 
of the British Museum. They had all known 
Patuffa since she was a little girl, when Kuprian¬ 
off used to tell her Russian folk stories in very 
funny broken English, and Moshinki in still 
quainter English used to try and explain their 
meaning. She played to them now, and they 
smoked and drank their tea; and at the end she 
took the theme of Tatiana Dubrovina’s little 
Ukrainian love story and gently improvised on it 
w r ith a tenderness and a true poetic feeling all her 
own. 

When the last notes had died away, Kuprianoff 
looked up and said: 

“ Tcharushin, do you not see our little Tatiana 
whom we have lost, rocking herself to and fro? 
Do you not hear her singing that song in her low 
voice? No, we have not lost her. She is here, 
since we remember her. We drink to her.” 

They rose and drank to Tatiana Dubrovina. 

Patuffa came away from Coptic Street greatly 
helped by that atmosphere of dedication to a 
great cause. She was released from any brooding 
sense of personal tragedy in a small matter, and 
braced up to meet the changed relationship with 
Mama with a gay cheerfulness. Each time she 
came in intimate contact with Mme. Tcharushin 
and her comrades she rose out of her rut, even 


PATUFFA 


105 


only momentarily, and glimpsed a far horizon 
where aims and hopes and fears and endeavors 
were divorced from personal ambition and per¬ 
sonal motive. Each time she passed a step 
further on in a spiritual development which had 
an immeasurable effect on her art. 

She had always received enormous help from 
the people with whom she had been lucky enough 
to be associated. Ever since he had known her 
Chummy had stimulated her interest in beautiful 
things; and thus she had grown up with a mind 
that was open and ready to invite and retain im¬ 
pressions. If she had been less sensitive her 
chances might have passed her by. But she hailed 
them and held them. Madame Tcharushin, with 
her largeness of vision and her brave undaunted 
spirit, was one of her chances. 

II 

Patuffa had an engagement to play at a private 
concert in Park Lane, and, as most artistes, dis¬ 
liked beyond everything a drawing-room audience. 
But the fee was large, and the hostess, Mrs. All¬ 
worth, was enthusiastic and influential. To have 
the entree to her circle was considered a great 
piece of good luck. Hendered had procured the 
engagement for her — a sign that he was bearing 
her welfare in mind. 

The audience talked throughout the first group 


106 


PATUFFA 


of songs sung by a beautiful mezzo-soprano. 
When Patuffa’s turn came, she said to Mrs. 
Allworth: 

“ I can’t play if they’re going to talk, I never 
could. Could you not ask them to be silent? 
The unfortunate singer had not a chance against 
their chatter. Such a beautiful voice, too. It 
does seem a shame! ” 

“ I fear I can say nothing,” Mrs. Allworth 
deprecated. “ You see, dear Miss Rendham, 
they are all society people, accustomed to do as 
they please. I beg of you to make the best of it, 
as others do.” 

“ I think I ought to warn you that I shall leave 
off if they talk,” Patuffa said quietly. 

Mrs. Allworth smiled unbelievingly, shrugged 
her shoulders a little, and left things to fate. But 
she decided that on another occasion she would, 
when engaging an artist, enquire first and fore¬ 
most whether the musician, however distin¬ 
guished, was docile in a drawing-room. Docility 
was an indispensable quality, and far more im¬ 
portant in the circumstances than a line tone or 
technique. 

Patuffa stood up, tuned her violin, waited for 
the talking to subside, and as it did not, began, 
and, to be just to her, persevered. 

“ Ah,” thought Mrs. Allworth, with a sigh of 
relief, “ she is docile after all. They are all the 
same — make a fuss at first and then go through 
with the ordeal like lambs.” 


PATUFFA 


107 


But she need not have been so sure. Brahms’s 
Third Hungarian Dance suddenly ceased, and 
Mrs. Allworth heard a voice say quietly: 

“ I am very sorry to disturb your conversation. 
I will leave off gladly.” 

Patuffa’s eyes had gone to a pin’s point, and her 
face was tense; but her bearing was dignified and 
calm, and she achieved the miracle of quelling 
that audience, if only for a moment. 

“ Shame on us,” cried one or two. “ Please go 

__ ” 

on. 

“ No, thank you,” said Patuffa fearlessly. “ It 
isn’t that I am giving myself airs or anything of 
that sort. That would be ridiculous, but the truth 
is that my nerves go all to bits. They really do.” 

Before they could recover from the amazement 
caused by this very unusual protest, she had with¬ 
drawn into the ante-room where she had to face 
an angry and a flustered Mrs. Allworth. 

“ I engaged you to play the violin, Miss Rend- 
ham,” she said. “ I did not engage you to teach 
my guests manners.” 

She added severely: 

“ You will scarcely have a successful season in 
drawing-rooms, whatever you may achieve in con¬ 
cert halls, if you behave in this way.” 

Patuffa, with miraculous self-control, kept back 
a rude retort, packed up her fiddle, and escaped. 

But when Mrs. Allworth apologized to her 
guests, one of them, an old lady, “ upped ” and 
defended the runaway. 


108 


PATUFFA 


“ She was courageous, Mrs. Allworth,” she 
said. “ I shall not forget her standing there so 
fearlessly and saying she could not go on. If 
more musicians followed her example, it would 
be better for them — and us.” 

That was thirty years ago. Perhaps Patuffa 
did not give her lesson in vain. Perhaps because 
of her and others, drawing-room audiences of the 
rich have learnt some bare elementary rules of 
courtesy towards the musicians and respect for 
their art. 

Patuffa arrived home, feeless, of course, but 
delighted with the protest she had made, and 
indifferent about her loss in solid money and solid 
opportunities for further social engagements. 
Rebellion in some form or other was her life’s 
blood, and the light of battle was still in her eyes 
as she recounted her adventure to Mama and 
Andrew Steyning, whom she found ensconced in 
the armchair and very much at home. 

But Mama’s attention wandered. Her mind 
was with Andrew; and Patuffa instantly sensed 
the differentiation in the quality and quantity of 
interest which her mother usually showed in 
all the things that happened to her, great or 
small. 

So here, then, was the beginning of that 
change. She, Patuffa, was not to count. A chill 
struck at her heart. It was almost more than she 
could bear to see this stranger, who was going to 
be her stepfather, in possession of the field. She 


PATUFFA 


109 


forgot about her compact with Mme. Tcharushin, 
forgot about that Russian mother’s letter, forgot 
about her own resolutions to make things easy 
and happy for Mama. She glared at poor Stey- 
ning, received his overtures of friendliness with 
reluctant tolerance, and was more than brusk 
in her manner when he congratulated her on her 
success. 

“ Thank you,” she said grimly in a tone which 
implied, “ Mind your own business . I don’t want 
your congratulations! } 

She saw Mama cast a hasty reproachful 
glance at her, and Steyning retreat into himself 
with an almost imperceptible hopeless little shrug. 
Then she realized that she was behaving horridly, 
and she pulled herself together at once. 

She held out her hand to Steyning and said half 
penitently, half humorously: 

“ I shall improve, stepfather-to-be. You see, 
I’ve got to recover from the shock.” 

“ Yes, yes, Patuffa,” he said, eager to meet her 
half way. “ Of course you have. I’m commit¬ 
ting a robbery. I know well. But — I couldn’t 
help myself.” 

And he pointed to Mama in an altogether en¬ 
dearing fashion, as if to explain that the tempta¬ 
tion had been beyond his power of resistance. 

“ No, I don’t suppose you could help yourself,” 
Patuffa said gently. 

She added with a gay little toss of the head: 

“ Well, well, my children, bless you.” 


110 


PATUFFA 


She left them. They watched the door close 
after her — and forgot her. 

She sought her music-room, took out her fiddle 
and thought she would work off steam by tackling 
the tremendous passages of thirds, octaves, and 
tenths in Paganini’s Concerto in D major. But 
the plan did not work. She was restless and could 
not concentrate. She suddenly felt she could not 
stay in the house. She wanted movement and 
space and longed to be in the country, tramping 
over the moors, watching the racing clouds, see¬ 
ing the lark rising higher and higher, hearing the 
cry of the peewit, bathing herself in Nature, 
which had never failed to minister to her in all 
her moods since her earliest childhood. Always 
Nature and Patuffa had been knit in closest 
friendship. Well, she couldn’t have the country 
now, worse luck. But at least she could walk, 
and the evening was fine and dry. She loved be¬ 
ing out in the dark. 

She threw on her coat and little round velvet 
cap, and went downstairs. She waited for a mo¬ 
ment or two in the hall, listening, half hoping for 
a sound, a sign from upstairs. There was no 
stir, no sign. If the drawing-room door had 
opened, and Mama’s voice had called her name, 
she would have bounded up the stairs as in the 
days gone by when Mama had summoned her 
from the nursery to share some pleasure, play to 
her on the piano, or give her the joy of intimate 
companionship. But no voice broke the silence 


PATUFFA 


111 


now. Mama and Steyning were wandering en¬ 
raptured in a remote, in an enchanted world to 
which there was no access, and whence no message 
could be wafted to any one, however dear, out¬ 
side those magic regions. 

She closed the front door, and paused on the 
pavement, uncertain in which direction to wend 
her way. Then Keble’s voice said: 

“ Hullo, Patuffa, where are you off to? ” 

The gloom on her face lifted a little. 

“ I don’t know,” she said. “ Anywhere my 
fancy takes me. I’ve got a bit of a hump and 
want to wear it down.” 

“ I also have a bit of a hump,” he said. “ I’ve 
lost my case. My man has got seven years.” 

u All your brilliance in vain then?” she said. 
“ I’m sorry.” 

“ Yes,” he laughed half-heartedly. “ In 
vain.” 

“ Did you come to tell me this, or did you come 
to tell me you were sorry at last for having been 
so disagreeable about Papa Stefansky? ” she 
asked. 

“ To the first question the answer is in the 
affirmative,” he said. u To the second in the 
negative — but with a qualification. I may even 
add, an emphatic qualification. Will that 
suffice ? ” 

“ Perhaps it will, since you’ve had a reverse,” 
she conceded. 

“ May I ask whether you have come to the 


112 


PATUFFA 


point of being able to breathe the same oxygen as 
myself? ” he asked. 

u Perhaps I have/’ she said. 

“ Should I be interfering unduly in your private 
concerns if I were to ask what you thought of 
doing now? ” he ventured. “ Could we, for in¬ 
stance, join forces, since we have both got the 
hump? And why are you downcast, if I might 
dare inquire? ” 

“ I also have had a reverse, Keble,” Patuffa 
answered. 

“ Been playing badly at your last concert? ” he 
asked kindly. “ Poor little girl. One can’t al¬ 
ways be at one’s best.” 

“ No, one can’t always be at one’s best,” she 
repeated, and left it at that. 

“ If you have not any particular plan, why not 
come out to Hampstead with me? ” he suggested. 
“ I am going to my old friends, the Holidays. 
Madame Schumann is spending the night there. 
You know her, of course, and I was enjoined to 
persuade you to come, if by any chance you were 
at liberty. Come along, Patuffa. I’ll run in and 
tell your mother.” 

“ Mama is busy and can’t be disturbed,” 
Patuffa said abruptly. “ Leave her alone.” 

“ But she will be anxious about you,” he urged. 

“ Nonsense, she won’t be anxious,” Patuffa 
said. “ She expects me when she sees me. 
Moreover, at this moment she has got Steyning 
with her. They have become engaged.” 


PATUFFA 


113 


He gave a low little whistle. 

“ Jove,” he murmured. “ So it has come to 
that. What an extraordinary thing! ” 

“ I don’t think it is at all extraordinary,” she 
snapped. “ Why shouldn’t Mama become en¬ 
gaged? A lot of people have paid court to 
Mama. The only wonder is that she has not 
succumbed before.” 

He knew now why she was depressed, but he 
had the sense to show no sign. He knew that an 
impending separation from her mother, however 
remote, could bring anything but happiness to 
Patuffa’s devoted and sensitive nature. But his 
own heart gave a leap. Patuffa would stand 
alone — and who knew? — perhaps she would 
turn to him. That was the thought that flashed 
through his brain. If he were not u masterful ” 
or “ protective ” or “ interfering ” he might get 
his chance in very truth. If he “ blasted ” him¬ 
self, in the manner suggested by Madame 
Tcharushin, his scattered fragments might find 
themselves at his goal. Very light-hearted be¬ 
came Cousin Keble. All depression over his lost 
case was merged in joyful hope. 

“ Well, let’s be off, Patuffa,” he said. u Cer¬ 
tainly Cousin Marion must not be disturbed.” 

“ I haven’t said I am coming,” she said obsti¬ 
nately. “ I’d like to see dear Frau Schumann, of 
course. She was always so good to me. But I 
wanted most frightfully to have a tramp.” 

“You can have both,” he urged. “Frau 


114 


PATUFFA 


Schumann, and a jolly good tramp. The Holi¬ 
days live just off the Spaniards’ Road, and we can 
wander over the Heath to your heart’s content.” 

“ It sounds like an adventure,” she said, be¬ 
ginning to yield. “ Do you undertake not to be 
masterful, or critical, or fault-finding? ” 

“ I’ll undertake anything you like,” he agreed. 

Such a lovely crisp night. Moon and stars at 
their brightest. Space and freedom on those 
gracious heights. Almost a pity to enter any en¬ 
closure. And yet once there, welcoming friends, 
enthusiasts of music, and Frau Schumann, that 
honored presence, dignified with her own personal 
achievements, doubly ennobled by her history, her 
traditions, and her life linked with the genius of 
the great Master whose message she had carried 
through long years of fine service. Her noble 
playing of the Kreisleriana. Her pleasure in 
Patuffa’s rendering with her of Schumann’s D 
minor Violin Sonata, Keble’s generous pride in 
his little cousin’s gifts. Patuffa, her eyes bright 
with rapture of spirit and the flush of exultation 
on her eager face. And then once again moon 
and stars and space and freedom. 

No masterfulness — nothing to mar the ad¬ 
venture. 


CHAPTER X 


I 


M ADAME TCHARUSHIN was not far 
wrong about Stefansky’s portrait. Stey- 
ning, clever, careful, and experienced as 
he was in portrait painting, had not that form of 
mind which could grasp a temperament like 
Stefansky’s; and the result was that there was no 
fire in the old man’s face, no real dash and devilry 
in his bearing. Stefansky himself was amused 
and said to Chummy: 

“ Chummy, tell me, since when did I become a 
very, very respectable and well conducted and 
well brushed English, very English, gentleman? 
Madame Mama says it is absolutely like me, and 
that I am truly the person in the so strange pic¬ 
ture. But she looks at it with the eyes of love — 
not for me, helas, as we know, but for the painter 
fellow.” 

But he remained pleased that his portrait was 
being painted by a distinguished artist and would 
be exhibited in the “ so boring Royal Accademia ” 
together with Steyning’s other canvases. If the 
picture served no other purpose, at least the paint¬ 
ing of it administered some balm to his wounded 

115 



116 


PATUFFA 


pride. For as the weeks went on, he learnt the 
miserable truth that he was no longer wanted. 

It was nearly ten years since Stefansky had 
been in London, and he was aware that his last 
appearances had not been brilliantly successful. 
He was ill at the time, too ill, indeed, to care 
much what impression he had made or failed to 
make; and he had hated being in England, hated 
playing before conventional audiences, and at the 
houses of the conventional rich. He had, in fact, 
been at his worst, musically, mentally, and 
socially. So he had shaken the dust of Europe 
off him, and toured over Australia, New Zealand 
and South Africa, and even penetrated to China 
and Japan. He never settled down, never formed 
connections which should have lasted him for the 
rest of his life. And now, when he had returned 
to the scenes of his former triumphs, he found 
that the world was showering its favors on other 
heroes of the bow. He had been confident that 
when he deigned to put his foot in England again 
he would be rushed at. 

It was unbelievable that nothing happened. 
No director, no manager, no impresario, no con¬ 
ductor was thrilled. Old friends who had held 
the power in musical circles were dead. New 
personages looked in other directions. Some 
said: “Old Stefansky here? Funny, but I 

thought he had died long ago.” Or, “ Very fine 
in his day. Marvelous powers years ago. But 
now only a name.” Or from the younger peo- 


PATUFFA 117 

pie: u Never heard his name even. Who was 
he?” 

He wept from rage and grief. He agonized 
from jealousy over every violin player he heard. 
For he went to hear them all. He even went to 
Paris to hear one or two hated rivals. It was in 
vain that every one at Headquarters, where he 
was staying fitfully off and on, implored him not 
to go. Even Maria added her entreaties to those 
of Chummy and Irene. 

“ Now look here, Mr. Stefansky,” she enjoined 
soothingly, “ don’t you just be going to hear them 
other silly idiots. We can do much better stay¬ 
ing at home nice and quiet and you can practise 
comfortable in your room, I bringing you one of 
my most beautiful omelettes, and then sitting 
down quietly with my sewing and being the patient 
audience.” 

“ Damn the omelette,” Stefansky said. 
“ Damn the audience.” 

“ As you please,” said Maria cheerfully. “ I’ll 
make the omelette and be the audience all the 
same. Come now, Mr. Stefansky, leave them 
other silly idiots to their own noises.” 

“ Ah, there you have it, Maria,” he cried tri¬ 
umphantly. “ Noises — not music.” 

To Irene’s remonstrances he said: 

“ My little, kind Irene, always so good and 
thoughtful, you must not worry about your so 
troublesome old friend. You must quietly write 
your stories and books, which I am very, very 


118 


PATUFFA 


proud of and which, please God, I never, never in 
my life shall read. All I shall do is to interrupt 
you when you are busy writing them. Yet never 
are you impatient or cross with me. Never once, 
my child. How do you manage never to be cross 
with me when I disturb your thoughts and studies 
and ruin your career? ” 

“ I put my crossness in my diary,” she laughed. 
“I write: ‘Papa Stefansky has been perfectly 
awful to-day and I have been at my wits’ end. 
Nine times he interrupted me when I was trying 
to finish a love scene. He had two quarrels with 
Chummy, and he threw his omelette at Maria’s 
head. Then he borrowed some money from me, 
and rushed out and bought violets for Maria, 
crystallized ginger for me, and grapes for 
Chummy, which he ate up himself. Peace was 
restored — and I finished my love scene. I think 
I am a wonder! ’ ” 

“ And so you are, my pet,” he said. “ I kiss 
your little clever hand in great gratitude. But 
listen, I must go to the damned concert. The 
human heart loves to torture itself. Ha, there is 
something for you to write about in one of those 
stories which I shall never read. But I am proud 
of them.” 

To Chummy he said: 

“ Do not try to prevent me. I have to make 
sure that none of these new beasts play better on 
the violino than I play, Chummy. I must satisfy 
myself that no one else has my so faultless tech- 


PATUFFA 119 

nique, my enchanting tone, my verve, my passion, 
my fire.” 

He came back entirely persuaded on those 
points; and in the past his conclusions would have 
been just. At his best, no one could have touched 
him. But he was unconscious that for a long time 
his powers had been on the wane and that he had 
cheapened his art by playing only inferior music 
for the applause of indiscriminating audiences. 

No one knew the breadth and depth of his suf¬ 
fering, but Patuffa knew more than any one, since 
it was on her that he vented the worst of his 
spleen. But she kept the secret so far as he him¬ 
self allowed her, made a point of never irritating 
him by any narration of her own affairs, and in¬ 
variably hid her notices from him. It was 
pathetic how she sheltered him from herself in 
every way she could. 

Irene wrote in her diary: “Patuffa protects 
Papa Stefansky precisely as she protected me in 
the old days — like a tigress preparing to spring. 
Her patience with him is far greater than mine 
— if he only knew it, poor old dear. Never once 
have I heard her complain. And one morning, 
when Chummy ventured to remark that it would 
have been better for her if Stefansky had re¬ 
mained in Prague, she half bit his head off. But 
he was pleased, all the same. He loves her, as I 
do, for the way she is bearing herself in very try¬ 
ing circumstances. She pins her faith on Hen- 
dered and says that all would be well if Stefansky 


120 


PATUFFA 


could have one single public appearance. But so 
far there has been no sign. Chummy hopes there 
will be no sign. But he has not said that to 
Patuffa yet, in case his head should be entirely bit¬ 
ten off, and he wants first to finish reading the 
Inferno for about the twentieth time.” 

But one day when Patuffa was particularly wor¬ 
ried at receiving no news of any kind from 
Hendered, and sought counsel from Chummy, he 
said gravely: 

“ Patuffa, surely it must have struck you that 
Stefansky has lost the brilliancy of his technique 
and all his old witchery. I have lingered outside 
his door listening to him many a time lately, and 
I have been full of concern.” 

She stood, a little stubborn figure, glaring at 
him in silence. She knew his words were true. 
She, too, had had awful moments of doubt as the 
time went on. But she had spurned those mis¬ 
givings and would continue to spurn them. 

“ Suppose, as you wish, that he got an engage¬ 
ment,” Chummy went on, “ and then made a 
fiasco. Far better for him not to have the chance 
of running the risk. At present he is only angry. 
But suppose he were broken-hearted, little 
Patuffa — what then ? ” 

“ He couldn’t fail,” she answered defiantly. 
“ He would rise to the occasion. I know he 
would.” 

Chummy strolled over to the window, and 
looked out on the garden. 


PATUFFA 


121 


“ I don’t know anything sadder than the de¬ 
cadence of a superb talent,” he said after a pause. 
“ Singers and instrumentalists should cease at their 
best — die or be silent for ever. No, Patuffa, I 
don’t want Stefansky to be heard in London 
again. I want him to go quietly back to Prague, 
angry, perhaps, and jealous, as you, my poor 
child, know well. Angry and jealous, but not 
broken-hearted because still believing in himself 
and his powers. This is what I wish for my old 
friend.” 

“ He couldn’t fail,” she repeated fiercely. “ I 
want for him a great and glorious appearance at 
St. James’s Hall. The house rising to its feet in 
homage. Thundering applause. Repeated re¬ 
calls. His name shouted. Papa Stefansky 
pleased and excited, and all his fun and light-heart¬ 
edness bubbling over as before.” 

Chummy was moved, as always, by her unfail¬ 
ing loyalty. He believed that if she could keep 
her spirit untouched by the vanities and tempta¬ 
tions to which most artists succumbed sooner or 
later, she would make of her music a noble and 
living force, and be what he had ever longed and 
striven for her to be — a faithful servant of her 
Art, conscious of the high mission to which she 
had been called. Would she prove fine enough, 
he wondered? Or would her generous emotions 
and her unselfish impulses be stifled by the sense 
of personal importance and insistence of the per¬ 
sonal note? Would she always want to share? 


122 PATUFFA 

When he asked this question of Irene, she re¬ 
proached him. 

“ Chummy, how could you doubt? I am 
ashamed of you. Patuffa will always want to 
share. Have you forgotten how you taught us 
as children to divide out in equal parts the sun¬ 
sets, and the moons and stars and the Norman 
windows and the stained glass and all the other 
lovely things you showed us and helped us to 
love. I am sure I often forget, but Patuffa never 
would.” 


II 

Patuffa went to Manchester to play at a Rich¬ 
ter concert where she distinguished herself by a 
beautiful rendering of Brahms’s Violin Concerto. 
She was sitting in the artists’ room afterwards 
talking to one of the Committee when a little 
frail old lady came in and approached her. She 
waved her gold headed black stick half humor¬ 
ously, half imperiously, at the man and said: 

“ Go away, Mr. Somers, go away instantly, I 
want to talk to this young thing, I have something 
very important to say to her, and I have to say it 
at once before I change my mind.” 

“ All right, Lady Westleton,” he said, smiling, 
“ I retreat.” 

She nodded to him, and sat down by Patuffa 
who had risen to greet her. 

“ My child,” she said, “ you have played very 


PATUFFA 


123 


beautifully. I know music, and I know musicians. 
I have lived all my life amongst them. You have 
touched me to the heart’s core. I have noted well 
that you have thought first of the music, then of 
the instrument, and never of yourself. Keep that 
always, so that you may remain a faithful priestess 
of the Art which is more glorious than any other.” 

She paused a moment and then went on: 

“ Amongst the collection of musical instru¬ 
ments made by my husband, who died many years 
ago, there is a violin of rare beauty and purest 
tone. It is a Joseph Guarnerius. It was played 
on last by Ernst in our house. Oh, my child, how 
he played. He wrung the heart out of it. We 
said no one else should touch it. So it has lain 
mute — a lovely thing to look at, but deprived of 
its natural function and mission. What folly — 
what waste — what folly! Typical of so much 
splendor and usefulness wasted in our ridiculous 
lives. You shall have it. I made up my mind 
at the end of the Adagio that it should be 
yours.” 

“ But what can I say to you,” Patuffa ex¬ 
claimed, clutching the old lady’s hand in her ex¬ 
citement. “ Flow could I take such a gift from 
you? I could not ever deserve it.” 

“ Do we ever get what we deserve, or deserve 
what we get?” laughed Lady Westleton softly. 
“ And you could accept it, because it is, in a sense, 
an impersonal gift. Personal — and yet imper¬ 
sonal for all who hear it to share in. Come, my 


124 


PATUFFA 


child, it isn’t late. Drive home with me now and 
take possession of it before I change my mind.” 

“ But you could change your mind afterwards, 
at any time, couldn’t you? ” Patuffa said, spring¬ 
ing up. 

“ No,” she smiled. “ Once given, always 
given. Now, say good-by to these other ad¬ 
mirers waiting for a few of your crumbs, and 
we’ll bring all your flowers with us. The car¬ 
riage can take them and you to your hotel after¬ 
wards.” 

In a dream Patuffa was driven to the old lady’s 
house. In a dream she passed through the hall, 
arm in arm with her new friend, who leaned 
lightly on her, yet a little tremblingly too, for she 
also was excited in a curious suppressed way. 
They reached a large music-room, lofty and 
spacious, and as at Headquarters, with an organ 
built into an alcove. Many different kinds of 
musical instruments hung on the walls or were 
reposing in cases. In a long, low cabinet against 
the wall were four violins under glass. Lady 
Westleton unlocked this cabinet, and took out one 
of the four. 

“ Take it, little girl,” she said in a low voice. 
“ It will be in worthy hands. Some day you shall 
play on it to me — but not now. That would be 
more than I could bear — and I might feel I 
could not part with it when I heard its lovely 
voice. But I want you to have it — you deserve 
it for your astonishing interpretation of that 



PATUFFA 


125 


Brahms — yes, yes, you need not look bewildered 
or distressed — I know what I’m about — I’m a 
funny, an eccentric old party — any one will tell 
you that — but I know what I’m about, and this 
violin is to be yours.” 

Patuffa glanced now at the beautiful violin, 
now at the old lady who was under the sway of 
strong emotion, and now again at this treasure, 
coming thus unexpectedly into her possession. 
Her face was pale from the intensity of her ex¬ 
citement. 

“ Believe me,” she said, “ it will be a sacred 
trust.” 

When Patuffa arrived home, she found that 
Mama was out. Mama was always out in those 
days, enjoying gloriously happy times with An¬ 
drew Steyning. 

“ Mama out as usual with my much adored 
stepfather-to-be,” she said, shrugging her 
shoulders and relieving her feelings by shaking 
her fist at his photograph which stood on Mama’s 
writing desk. 

Well, she would go to Pleadquarters and show 
her treasure there. Some one would be there. 
She was bubbling over with such excitement over 
her new possession that it was absolutely neces¬ 
sary for her to find some one to sympathize with 
her. She was ashamed of herself for her weak¬ 
ness, but she could not help pausing for a moment 
on the door step, half hoping Keble might appear 


126 


PATUFFA 


on the scene and rejoice with her. There were 
no signs of him. 

Chummy was having an Italian lesson with his 
favorite Italian Professor and they were both 
steeped in the Inferno. But Dante and Virgil, 
Sordello and Francesca da Rimini immediately re¬ 
treated in favor of the Joseph Guarnerius violino. 
Irene was at a crucial point in the development of 
a new short story dealing with the Great Re¬ 
bellion, but she left John Hampden in the lurch 
and gave all her attention and sympathy to 
Patuffa and Lady Westleton’s glorious and gen¬ 
erous gift. 

“ What a beauty,” she said, stroking and 
caressing it. “ I am glad, Patuffa. But you de¬ 
serve it.” 

“ Of course I don’t deserve it, you little brick 
of an idiot,” Patuffa laughed, pinching her ear. 
“ But I knew you’d be as happy about it as I am. 
Just look at the varnish, and the scroll and the 
back and the belly. I’m so excited I don’t know 
what to do with myself.” 

“ Go up and show it to Papa Stefansky,” Irene 
urged. “ He has just come in, and is in one of his 
very good moods.” 

Patuffa dashed upstairs. She was so uplifted 
and joyous that she forgot about his jealousy. 
Probably it never struck her that he could or 
would be angry about a royal gift of this nature 
which represented a landmark in a rising young 
artist’s career. She knocked, and burst in upon 


PATUFFA 


127 


his presence, with all her eager impetuosity. She 
danced around him as she cried: 

“See what I’ve got here, Papa Stefansky — 
such a surprise Pve had — I can scarcely believe 
my eyes even now — it all seems like a dream — 
a Joseph Guarnerius — given me by Lady Wes- 
tleton in Manchester — after I’d played a 
Brahms Concerto — never played on since Ernst 
touched it — think of that — and now mine — 
mine — it is incredible that I should possess such 
a treasure — but won’t it just spur me on — look 
at it — isn’t it a beauty ? ” 

As she held it out to him, he seized it so 
roughly that she gave a cry of alarm lest it were 
going to fall to the ground. 

“ Oh, take care, take care,” she cried anxiously. 

“ What for you tell me to take care,” Stefan¬ 
sky snapped, turning on her angrily. “ That is 
something new for me to learn that I cannot hold 
a violino safe in my hands. And so you have had 
this wonderful present given to you! And what 
would you want with it — tell me? It is not for 
such as you. It is only for a great player —■ 
some one in the very front rank like myself. 
Never will you be there. It is not for you. All 
nonsense that you should have it. Ridiculous 
nonsense. The woman must have been fool 
mad.” 

And then and there he lost entire control of his 
jealousy. He forgot that it was Patuffa whom 
he was making the victim of his accumulated 


128 


P A T U F F A 


spleen and disappointment. He railed against 
the public, the conductors and impresarios of all 
countries, the violinists of the past and present 
and all musicians whatsoever. He scoffed at and 
depreciated the Joseph Guarnerius and said it was 
without doubt one of Joseph’s inferior examples, 
and that was why the 'old idiot woman had been 
willing to part with it, and no wonder if one 
looked at the miserable scroll and the con¬ 
temptible back — oh yes, yes, an entirely in¬ 
ferior example. But even then what w r ould 
Patuffa be wanting with it? Far too good 
for her. Ridiculous, absurd to give her a 
Joseph Guarnerius. 

Patuffa, half stunned, stood quiet, motionless, 
as she had always stood in the past, when Stefan- 
sky had treated her to one of his rages. 

Was she thinking that success and good luck 
were only bringing Dead Sea fruit to her, and 
that nothing mattered much, if all the glow and 
glory of life were liable to be quenched and dulled 
by the very people whom one loved most? But 
whatsoever she thought, no single w r ord of re¬ 
monstrance passed her lips. She waited with a 
resigned patience and let the torrent of his wrath 
expend itself whilst he threw himself about, 
swore, flung his arms around, paced up and down, 
seized the violin, turned it over, stared at it, 
scoffed at it, and thrust it from him. 

“Take your so wretched present away,” he 
shouted. “ Take it.” 


PATUFFA 


129 


Suddenly she found words and anger, and her 
eyes blazed with indignation. She could have 
killed him on the spot. 

u Yes,” she said, “ I will take it away, and, my 
God, I will never be such a fool again as to bring 
you news of any good luck that may happen to 
me. You’ve taught me my lesson well.” 

The tone of scorn in her voice reached him. 
Her utterly unlooked-for rebellion brought him 
to his senses instantly. As she made for the door 
with her violin clasped under her arm, he rushed 
forward and prevented her. 

“ No, no, little devil’s child,” he cried, “ don’t 
go, don’t leave me — that I could not bear. 
I-” 

He broke off, and sank into his chair, ashamed, 
humble, penitent. 

u Forgive me, forgive me,” he kept on mur¬ 
muring, his head sunk on his breast. “ Very, very 
beautiful is the Joseph, and very, very bad- 
hearted your old Papa Stefansky. And it is only 
right you should have it to be a comfort to you 
and to help you in your career, my little Patuffe, 
and it shall be a glorious career and I will not be 
jealous or angry any more if you forgive me this 
once — just this once.” 

She knelt by his side, soothing him, stroking 
his hand, sad and solemn, but with the concerned 
protectiveness which one might show to a suffer¬ 
ing child. It passed through her mind that she 
would never care for the Joseph Guarnerius in 



130 


PATUFFA 


the same way as she would have cared if Stefan- 
sky could have shared with her the joy of it, and 
not grudged her the good fortune of this most 
generous gift. For the moment, all the bloom 
was off the peach. It would come back, of course, 
since the bloom returns in a magic and merciful 
renewal when one is only twenty-three years old, 
and life’s path stretches out illumined with hopes 
and wondrous possibilities. But for that brief 
spell, Patuffa saw only a darkening shadow over a 
long stretching road. 

Would she be like Stefansky as time went on, 
and want everything for herself, she wondered? 
Would she grudge to all others their chances, 
their bits of triumph and glory and unexpected 
good luck? Perhaps she would. But at least she 
must take warning and put up a fight against such 
a jealousy as this. But he had fought. She knew 
it and felt it. If he could have helped it, he would 
never have been jealous of his little devil’s child. 
Never. And as she repeated the word to her 
soul, her anger and bitterness passed, and she 
forgave. 

He had recovered himself, and Patuffa was 
standing silently by watching him choose one of 
his very best E strings to put on the violin, when 
the door opened and Maria brought a letter for 
him. He jerked it on to the floor, half im¬ 
patiently, half humorously, and Maria laughed 
and said: 

“ I’m not going to pick it up, Mr. Stefansky. 


PATUFFA 


131 


I have the lumbagos very bad to-day. Perhaps 
Miss Patuffa will oblige us? ” 

Patuffa smiled, picked up the letter and flicked 
it affectionately in the old woman’s face. As she 
glanced at it, she saw it was from the Philhar¬ 
monic Orchestral Society. 

“ From the Philharmonic,” she said casually, 
though her heart beat excitedly. 

He tore it open then, and read it. His face 
broke into smiles. His pride returned to him at 
a bound. Stefansky was himself again. 

“ See here, Patuffe,” he exclaimed. u This is 
as it should be. Those pigs want me. Of course 
they want me. How was it that I ever doubted. 
Aha, I am still the great Stefansky, with my soul 
of fire, and my so marvelous technique and my 
tenderness and my phrasing — ah, how beautiful 
it is — isn’t it so, Patuffa? They want me You 
rejoice with me — you are happy for me, little 
Patuffe ? ” 

George Hendered had kept his word to Patuffa 
and put Stefansky down for an unexpectedly 
vacant date. 


CHAPTER XI 


I T was the episode of the Guarnerius which he 
had learnt from Stefansky, not from Patuffa, 
which made Chummy come to a decision on a 
matter weighing heavily on his mind. He saw 
clearly that Patuffa was not having much peace of 
mind with Stefansky’s varying moods, and 
Mama’s love affair. Rumors reached him that 
Mama was seldom at home, and he noticed how 
much more frequently Patuffa rushed round in her 
leisure to Headquarters to give her news, to seek 
sympathy, to ask Irene to go with her to a con¬ 
cert at which she was playing. From many other 
little signs it was borne in on him that Patuffa 
stood alone, at a time too when she needed sup¬ 
port and care. Mama had failed her — very 
strangely he thought. But there it was. It was 
no business of his. He had never believed that 
she would accept Andrew Steyning. It had not 
seemed possible to him that she would be willing 
to present Patuffa with a stepfather. Patuffa 
with a stepfather! The idea was ridiculous. 
She was docile for the moment, but the inevitable 
would happen. Either the stepfather would 

turn her out, or she would turn the stepfather 

132 


PATUFFA 


133 


out. In any case, there was no prospect of a rest¬ 
ful atmosphere for her in her mother’s new home 
which would really never be hers. She must have 
a home which would give her the basis she needed 
for her nature and her career. Headquarters 
must be that home. 

He resolved to take a risk with Patuffa. 
Years ago when her father’s fortune had been 
lost, and her old home had to be given up, 
Chummy had offered to adopt the little wayward 
girl who had become so dear to Irene and him¬ 
self. She had repulsed him with a tumult of rage; 
and he said to himself now that no one but a very 
great fool would dream of encountering the possi¬ 
bility of another such tempestuous rebuff. But, 
then, he was a very great fool. He had lived his 
whole life on those lines, and he reflected as he 
sat in his arm-chair and smoked his cigar that it 
was unnecessary and even undesirable at his age 
to change his methods. 

Chummy was alone that evening when he came 
to his decision. Irene had gone to a literary din¬ 
ner at the Criterion Restaurant, and he had sped 
her on her way with the assurance that he would 
be glad to be alone to turn over several business 
matters in his mind, and to growl undisturbedly 
over his gout. “ Well deserved, my child, 5 ’ as he 
said, “ but a bore.” 

There was no need to ask Irene, whose un¬ 
selfish devotion to Patuffa had not changed with 
the passage of time. Patuffa could have com- 


134 


PATUFFA 


mitted every kind of vagary or crime in the cata¬ 
logue of human imperfections and always have 
been sure of her friend’s championship, and if it 
came to a question of homelessness she would be 
the first to say that Headquarters must be 
Patuffa’s new home. 

Patuffa looked in that night. She was in good 
spirits, had been leading in Beethoven’s Quartet 
in F Minor, Op. 95, and Schumann’s Quintet, in 
Cheltenham, and had enjoyed herself enormously. 
She seemed so young and fresh and gay, so up¬ 
lifted with life and so keen about her work, that 
he wondered whether after all she was troubling 
about Mama’s engagement. She told him with an 
indulgent laugh that Mama was as usual out with 
her Steyning man, and so she had run in for a bit 
of good cheer and a game of chess if he felt in¬ 
clined. No, he didn’t feel inclined for chess he 
said. He was very busy. 

She nipped out a little piece of embroidery 
which never got finished and said: 

“ Busy, Chummy? ” 

“ Yes, very busy, Patuffe,” he smiled. “ No 
time for you. Stefansky has gone to his hotel for 
a day or two, thank goodness, and Irene is out at 
a dinner, and I am taking this opportunity to be 
very busy.” 

“ I see no signs of diligence,” she said, settling 
down comfortably. “ Anyway I’m not going. 
Here I am, and here I stay. What is your en¬ 
grossing occupation?” 


PATUFFA 


135 


u Gout and thoughts,” he said. “ Both some¬ 
what perplexing.” 

“You always say you deserve the gout, and 
perhaps you do, Chummy. But I’m sure you 
don’t deserve perplexing thoughts. What’s the 
matter? Has some one been doing you in? But 
that wouldn’t worry you. You’d only say: 
* Made a fool of myself again, Tweedledee.’ ” 

He laughed. 

“ My perplexing thoughts are centered round 
you, Patuffe,” he said. “ I am asking myself a 
question which concerns you.” 

“Why not ask me instead?” she suggested. 
“ Perhaps I could throw a little light on the 
subject.” 

“ Yes, you could,” he nodded, and for a mo¬ 
ment or two there was silence as he watched her 
working. 

Then he began: 

“ This is the question which I have been put¬ 
ting to myself. Madame Mama is going to 
marry again, and her new home will not really 
be the home where Patuffa can spread herself 
in the same well-known overwhelming way. 
Somewhere that devil’s child must be able to 
spread herself and be at her ease—where she 
can upset every one and herself too, and 
be a nuisance all round and be loved and 
forgiven, yes and relied on — absolutely re¬ 
lied on. And where should that place be if 
not here? ” 

yf 


136 


PATUFFA 


“ Chummy,” she interposed, but he put up his 
hand to stop her. 

“ Art is not everything,” he went on. “ There 
must be a sheltering atmosphere all one’s own. 
The utterance of one’s talents, the platform, the 
applause, the excitement, the exaltation of spirit, 
the appreciation of friends known and unknown, 
all the pleasures and penalties, too, which a suc¬ 
cessful career brings in its wake, are not enough. 
They are grand things, of course. But there must 
be something added to them or else they may 
become Dead Sea fruit.” 

She had dropped her embroidery and was star¬ 
ing in front of her with that strained look on her 
face always characteristic of her when her emo¬ 
tions and feelings were stirred. In that moment 
Patuffa realized more than she had ever done, 
the seriousness and desolation of her impending 
loss. Mama had hitherto been that sheltering 
atmosphere — all her own. She had lost it al¬ 
ready before Mama’s marriage. And after mar¬ 
riage— what then? 

“ Now listen,” he continued. “ You say very 
little, nothing in fact, about the change which 
confronts you, and I admire you for your reti* 
cence. But I know your thoughts. Madame 
Mama, who has been your faithful stand-by all 
these years, recedes from your life. That is what 
it comes to. I suppose I am glad for her sake, 
Patuffe, for she has been a most unselfish, devoted 


PATUFFA 137 

mother. For your sake, of course, I am not glad. 
But I don’t criticize her. All. . . .” 

“ You’d better not,” Patuffa interrupted with 
sudden defiance. 

“ I know that,” he said with half a smile. 
“ And I don’t want to. All I want to say is this. 
Years ago, when there was a crisis in the home of 
the Rendhams, I asked a little wrought-up, rebel¬ 
lious child to make her home with Irene and me. 
She turned on me like a wild animal. Do you 
remember? And now there is another crisis — 
perhaps graver in a sense. And I am making 
exactly the same proposition to the same little 
devil, more grown up, it is true, and without a 
pigtail, but with the same fierce spirit. I run 
exactly the same risks of being turned on by a 
tigress, and therefore, considering my age, my 
dignity and my gout, I am making a pretty great 
fool of myself — don’t you think? Yet I say, 
Come to Irene and me. You can have your old 
room and another one too for your practising, 
and we’ll share everything. You shall have a 
third of the organ, and a third of the kitchen, 
and a third of the sunsets from this study and a 
third of the Beethoven letters and a third of 
the engravings of musicians and. . . .” 

She sprang up from her chair and went and 
stared at Chummy’s favorite picture, a soft sil¬ 
very bywater, with reeds trembling in the breeze. 
When she returned to his side, her face, though 


138 


PATUFFA 


pale, was no longer strained and tense, and she 
looked as beautiful as in her finest moments of 
inspiration when she was wrestling the very soul 
out of her violin. 

“ Darling Chummy,” she murmured, “ you’ve 
not made a fool of yourself, and there is no tigress 
in the room just now. Yes, I would love to come 
to Headquarters. Nothing would I love better. 
But shouldn’t I be too much of a trouble to you 
and Irene with my comings and goings and my 
practisings and all my uncertain moods? ” 

“ You could not possibly be more of a trouble 
than Stefansky and others who have frequented 
Headquarters,” he said, smiling. “ We are well 
accustomed to troublesome criminals here, you 
remember. Anyway as compared with Stefansky, 
you would be a slumbering angel of peace. That 
precious engagement you’ve got for him has 
braced him up and knocked us over, I can tell 
you.” 

He held his hand out to her, and she took it and 
rubbed it against her cheek in her old childish way. 

“ I don’t know why you should do this for me,” 
she said. 

“ There was once a small devil at school called 
Patuffa, who sheltered a little scholar called Irene 
from the jealousy and scorn and contempt of her 
comrades,” he answered. “A seed was planted 
then which grew into an everlasting flower. 
That’s why.” 

“ Beasts and brutes, I hate them even now,” 


PATUFFA 


139 


she said truculently. “ Even now after all these 
years I’d like to tear out their hair. Even now, 
after all these years, I’d like to see them humili¬ 
ated. I wonder what they’d think of Irene now 

— writing for the magazines and coming on so 
splendidly in her career, and me a platform 
beauty.” 

He laughed. 

“ They would not think anything,” he said. 
“ They did not know they were doing anything 
out of the way. It is the natural instinct of com¬ 
mon-place people to scoff at idealists. It will 
have to be a new world when that does not take 
place, Patuffa. But they had their use for us. 
Because of them we are here all together — you 
and I and Irene — fast friends for life, with a 
corner for Patuffa no matter what she is, little 
child, young miss, or grown-up platform beauty 

— if and when she wants it. So that’s settled, 
isn’t it?” 

She threw her arms in the air, and paced up 
and down joyously. 

“ Oh, the relief, Chummy,” she cried. “ I’ve 
been feeling utterly adrift. You know I haven’t 
had much time for planning, what with journeys 
and concerts and rehearsals, and lessons and prac¬ 
tising. But in a vague sort of way I’ve been 
wondering what I should do with myself. Mama, 
of course, fondly believes I am going to live in her 
new home, and the Steyning man has said many 
kind words to me about myself and the boys. 


140 


PATUFFA 


Mark and Eric may be able to fall in, as they 
are always away, but I never could. I don’t see 
myself in my stepfather’s house — thank you ; . 
But darling Mama, walking on air, hasn’t realized 
that, and I don’t want her to, yet. I want to 
behave decently if I can — with ups and downs. 
Madame Pat and I made a compact that we both 
would. But I’ve broken it several times — in 
fact, I break it every time I see Steyning. And 
thank goodness she has broken it too. She is al¬ 
ways having a dig about Stefansky’s portrait, and 
then she goes one better and has a dig about 
Steyning! But Mama is in Paradise! Evi¬ 
dently nothing reaches you much when you are 
in Paradise. A good thing, too.” 

She added: 

“ Steyning is not a bad sort. I own that. Of 
course, I hate him through and through. But 
then I’d hate any one who robbed me of Mama. 
And then when I see how gloriously happy she is, 
I hate myself.” 

“ Well, go easy with yourself,” Chummy said. 
“ What you have to focus on just now is your 
work. You have the ball at your feet. Kick it. 
You have the most beautiful career that life could 
offer you. And your corner here — secure and 
waiting for you. So when Mama marries her 
Steyning man, as you call him, come and be with 
us until you yourself get married. I suppose 
you will marry sooner or later. But I hope with 
all my heart it will be later. Much better for 


PATUFFA 


141 


you and your music if it is later. Have a good 
run of flirtations and mild affairs first, and con¬ 
tinue as you are doing now to send your adherents 
to the four winds one by one, each in his due 
turn. An excellent plan for you until the right 
victim comes riding along. You don’t want to be 
caged yet—or do you? ” 

“ No, indeed I don’t,” she laughed. “ I want 
to be free and remain free. I should be terrified 
to give up my freedom.” 

“ No real hankerings after Cousin Keble? ” he 
asked. 

She shook her head. 

“ No,” she said. “ I like Keble as a friend, 
and you see, Chummy, I am accustomed to him. 
And I don’t always like him even as a friend. 
Indeed I positively hate him sometimes when he 
is in one of his overbearing moods and could 
kill him comfortably. But when he is at his best, 
he is ever so companionable, and we have lots of 
things in common — Nature — snow, mountains, 
glaciers and all that. But as for loving him and 
wanting to marry him — no. I don’t see myself 
doing that.” 

“ Well, well,” Chummy laughed, patting her 
hand, “ keep your freedom as long as you can, 
little Patuffe.” 

Yes, he need have no fear about that, she as¬ 
sured him. Did he remember the tragic story she 
had once told him of the Hungarian nobleman 
who had married a young violinist of rare gifts, 



142 


PATUFFA 


forced her to give up her career and shut her up 
on his lonely estate in the depths of the country 
where she shot herself? Chummy said the story 
left him quite cold. It could not be Patuffa’s fate. 
She would either escape from the estate or shoot 
the Baron. Or both. 

From tyrannical Hungarian husbands and 
broken careers these two great friends passed on 
to far more engrossing subjects. Chummy had 
been reading the Correspondence Between Wag¬ 
ner and Liszt y and he showed her some of the 
extracts he had made for her. And then they 
fell a-talking of Wagner’s characters, and of their 
unforgettable visit to Bayreuth when they heard 
Parsifal. 

When Irene came back, she found them intently 
engaged in the study of the Good Friday music, 
and dead to the world outside the mystic realms 
reared by the Great Master’s genius. 


CHAPTER XII 


I 

T HE only person who rejoiced over poor 
Mama’s engagement was Cousin Keble; 
but he took good care to veil his pleasure, 
and so successfully, that Mama had the impres¬ 
sion that he thoroughly disapproved of her. But 
ensconced safely in her Paradise, she did not care 
a straw what he or any one else thought of her. 

But Patuffa, sharp as a needle, guessed at 
Keble’s secret contentment. 

“ He is as crafty as a fox,” she laughed to 
herself. “ He thinks he sees a fine opening ahead, 
and is planning to lead me to the altar and shut 
me up in an iron safe immediately Mama is mar¬ 
ried! What a sell for him when he sees me step 
quickly into the security of Headquarters. Not 
so easily caught, Cousin Keble! ” 

She was right. Keble regarded Mama’s mar¬ 
riage as his great opportunity, and schooled him¬ 
self to use it in the wisest way possible. He 
spread his net most carefully, did Cousin Keble. 
His encounter with Patuffa over Stefansky had 
taught him a lesson, and he ceased to be domineer¬ 
ing and proprietary, dropped all comments on her 

independence of action and her unchaperoned pro- 

143 


144 


PATUFFA 


fessional journeys and engagements, and in fact 
conducted himself as a man who took it for 
granted that women should live their lives on 
their own lines — a rare attitude of mind in those 
far-off days, and a great change from his naturally 
conventional and old-fashioned outlook. His 
quiet bullying he reserved strictly for professional 
purposes, and found plenty of scope for it in his 
ever-increasing work. 

Was he changing or only pretending to change? 
Which was it? The results at least were de¬ 
lightful, and Patuffa, though on her guard, had 
to admit that she enjoyed the easy comradeship 
that ensued. His very looks seemed to change. 
Something of rigidity went from his face, and his 
thin lips, often tuned to a quiet sarcasm, were 
modulated to a quiet playfulness which was 
strangely attractive. His chin appeared to have 
lost half of its stubbornness. Had the rock be¬ 
gun to blast itself into acceptable fragments? Or 
was he transformed because he was happy and 
hopeful? 

Nothing could have been wiser than the way in 
which he dealt with what struck him as the lone¬ 
liness in Patuffa’s home caused by Mama’s fre¬ 
quent absences. He simply ignored it. He offered 
no sympathy, and no extra companionship; and 
when he did turn up and find her alone, and per¬ 
haps tired, his only remark would be: 

“ Hullo, Patuffa, enough spunk in you for an 
outing? Or what about chess? ” 


PATUFFA 


145 


For she dearly loved a game of chess, and 
might easily have become a champion player. 

Towards Stefansky he maintained his usual 
attitude of disapproval, and in answer to Patuffa’s 
inquiries on one occasion as to whether he had 
reached any further stage of penitence for his un¬ 
generous criticism of her old master, he said: 

“ Certainly not. But I think on the whole I am 
sorry to have given you pain, since you are so 
absurdly attached to the little Polish worm.” 

But he added with a smile: 

“ I don’t mind owning that for your sake I 
am glad he is going to play at the Philharmonic. 
Perhaps a little for his own. But kindly observe 
that I only commit myself with 1 perhaps.’ ” 

“ Perhaps is a long step for you, old Keble,” 
she laughed. 

“ Perhaps it is,” he said with a twinkle in his 
eye. “ Quite long enough, anyway.” 

“ When you hear him play, you will forgive 
him everything,” she said. “ I know he will carry 
all before him. And you will be the one to clap 
the loudest and shout his name.” 

“ Never, so help me Heaven,” he answered 
stubbornly. 

“ Heaven won’t help you and you won’t be able 
to help yourself,” she said, amused this time, and 
not irritated by his stubborn opposition. “ He is 
a wizard, Keble, a wizard of a musician, and 
you’ll go down like a ninepin before his magic.” 

“ Never,” he repeated, and they left it at that, 


146 


PATUFFA 


but in perfect good temper with each other. She 
was too triumphant over Stefansky’s coming ap¬ 
pearance to be angry with him or any one. But 
she was amused as she pictured wdiat his disap¬ 
proval and disgust would be if he were a witness 
of Papa Stefansky’s trying behavior at Headquar¬ 
ters at that moment. 

It certainly was trying for the whole household. 
Stefansky was in a nervous and highly irritable 
condition, and always angry about alleged insults. 
Pie was disgusted with his portrait, and poured 
forth streams of animated eloquence on the sub¬ 
ject. Steyning heard criticisms on his art which 
might have had some effect on him if he had not 
been rendered impervious by long years of pros¬ 
perity and “ ordered serenity.” As it was, he was 
only angry and indignant, and with difficulty ap¬ 
peased even by Mama who, of course, was up in 
arms on his behalf. Mama being in love, looked 
on that portrait with blinded eyes. But, as Pa- 
tuffa remarked, if it had been painted by any one 
else except her Steyning man, she would not have 
looked at it at all. 

It was the cause of disturbance between herself 
and Patuffa, who told her a few home truths 
about it, and forgetful as always of her solemn 
resolutions to make Mama happy, took the op¬ 
portunity of stating what she thought of Steyning 
and his work and the prospect of having him as 
a stepfather. She did not stop there either. 
Worked up to truculence she attacked poor Steyn- 


PATUFFA 


147 


ing himself when she came in tired one afternoon 
and found him in the drawing-room. Patuffa at 
her worst was exceedingly rude, not so much in 
speech as in manner. But on this occasion she 
gave vent to her pent-up animus by a few choice 
little remarks such as that the portrait was absurd, 
and that what Stevning thought was fire — Steyn- 
ing prided himself on the fire he had put into 
the old man’s face — was not fire, was not even 
cinders or ashes. 

“ At least cinders or ashes have been alight 
once,” she said. “ But what you’ve put there, 
could never have been alight. That’s what I 
think about the portrait, and you can take it or 
leave it for all I care.” 

“ Patuffa,” remonstrated Mama, blushing with 
annoyance and shame. 

“ Well, he asked me what I thought,” she re¬ 
torted fiercely, “ and that is what I do think.” 

“ You have certainly told me what you think,” 
Steyning said quietly. 

“ Yes,” she nodded defiantly, “ I could tell you 
a lot more too if I wanted to.” 

Probably it was to prevent this catastrophe that 
she drank up her tea and darted out of the room. 
In her own quarters she drew a long breath, and 
said aloud: 

“ Thank Heaven I got that much out. Better 
than nothing. Interloping ass, coming here and 
taking possession of Mama. I’d like to do him 
in and all his damned portraits, too.” 



148 


PATUFFA 


Steyning, alone with Mama, stared at the door 
through which she had disappeared, much to his 
relief, and thought: 

“ Aly God, I shall never get on with Patuffa 

The portrait, therefore, begun with such kind 
intention, proved to be anything but a consolation 
either to Stefansky or any one else, and prevented 
Mama from contributing her help in the difficult 
circumstances at Headquarters. She went, of 
course, to try and do her part there, for Mama 
had no conscious wish to put up a barrier against 
her old life, and would have been utterly 
astonished if any one had told her that she was 
concentrating only on her own love affair — so 
blind and limited is the outlook of love at any age. 
So she went in body, if not in spirit; but as Ste¬ 
fansky always said, “ Aha, Madame Mama, that 
lover of yours he paint me very very funny, so 
quiet and good and like one holy angel,” it was 
hardly to be expected that Mama could make full 
exercise of her usual unfailing charm which had 
so often tempered Stefansky’s vagaries. 

His nerves were affected by his excitement over 
the concert and by a secret, searching anxiety 
which, for the first time in his life, made him 
doubt his own powers. The smallest contretemps 
sufficed to send him into a passion. One day he 
was agitated because he did not consider that his 
reappearance was being sufficiently emphasized in 
the Musical Notes in the Daily Telegraph. He 
rushed from room to room waving the Daily Tele - 


PATUFFA 


149 


graph wildly, and shouting that he, the great Ste- 
fansky, greater than any other violinist the world 
had ever seen, or ever would see, had been in¬ 
sulted. Did any one think he was going to play 
at that so damned concert? No, no. Never 
would he play. 

“ You see,” he yelled, u they not put my so 
great name in great letters alone, that the pigs 
of the public may know that I, the so wonderful 
Stefansky, and not any one else, am playing be¬ 
fore them, that they may have the so rich chance 
to hear me and not some fool violinist who might 
not be fit to resin my bow. They print it in a 
list, with other names, with the name of the idiot 
woman who will sing abominably the Senta solos 
from The Flying Dutchman. They print my 
illustrious name so — as nothing — I ask you — 
Chummy, Irene — I ask every one — I am angry 
— furious — and do you wonder? ” 

He asked Madame Tcharushin who had wan¬ 
dered in to see whether any of the inhabitants 
of Headquarters were still alive. 

“ Yes, I do wonder, Stefansky,” she agreed. 
“ But what I wonder at is that any one is alive 
here. I shouldn’t be.” 

“And what would that matter, pray?” he 
asked angrily. 

“ Nothing, of course, except to me,” she 
laughed good-temperedly. “ But I like frightfully 
being alive and enjoying the companionship of 
gentle geniuses like yourself. I am renewed in 


150 


PATUFF A 


youth and beauty. A thousand cares drop from 
my bowed shoulders.” 

Perhaps a slight flicker of amusement bright¬ 
ened his face when he heard himself included 
amongst the gentle geniuses; but he was not ap¬ 
peased. It was Maria who quietened him. She 
knew better than any one in that household how 
to deal with turbulent spirits. 

“ Now, now T , Mr. Stefansky,” she enjoined. 
“ What do it matter about the Daily Telegraph? 
If you was to get yourself put into Lloyd’s Weekly, 
they’d treat you proper. That’s the only paper 
that counts. And take my advice and don’t play 
at that concert. I wouldn't if I was you. I 
should throw it up. You stay quietly alongside 
of me, and I’ll cook you some of my lovely little 
cheese straws, for a change, and you can eat them 
all over the house, and drop the crumbs every¬ 
where you like, together with them peanut shells. 
There now — what do you think of that for a 
program? Much better than bothering yourself 
to play at that concert.” 

“ Not play at the Concert, fool woman,” he 
shouted angrily. “ You are mad. Cheese straws 
instead of the Concert. You are one ugly old 
idiot, Maria. Not play at the Concert. I fly 
up to practise now. I stay no longer listening 
to your so stupid words.” 

Maria sank down into her armchair after his 
tumultuous departure, and fanned herself with 
Lloyd’s Weekly. But she was still wearing a 


PATUFFA 


151 


smile of triumph on her face when Irene came 
to thank her, and to tell her that Stefansky had 
settled down to work. 

“ Ah, Miss Irene,” she murmured, u these mu¬ 
sicians, these musicians — bless them, but what a 
trial they be to the brain. How you manage to 
keep any sense in your head for covering all them 
pages with writing, beats me hollow. And now 
I hear Miss Patuffa is going to come here for 
ever, and she’ll be the worst of the bunch and al¬ 
ways wanting chocolate souffle at the wrong time. 
Well, well, she must have it, the dear child. But 
what a world! ” 

It certainly was a marvel how Irene kept either 
brain or temper during those difficult days. But 
she performed the feat, wrote and studied by 
snatches, protected Chummy from interruption, 
comforted Stefansky in his despair, shared his 
upliftments, and when he wished, acted as audi¬ 
ence. But she wrote in her diary: 

“ I am not having what one might call a peace¬ 
ful time. Thank heaven, the 'Concert will be 
over to-day fortnight. If I were easier about 
Papa Stefansky’s playing, I would not mind so 
much. But I know he is not at his best. If only 
he were not going to play the Beethoven Con¬ 
certo.” 

That was Chummy’s view, too. From the 
beginning he had been anxious about the choice, 
for even in his prime Stefansky had not been at 
his highest in Beethoven. He wished the Com- 


152 


PATUFFA 


mittee had acceded to Stefansky’s request for 
the Vieuxtemps in A Minor. But they had re¬ 
fused to change their plans for the season, and 
Beethoven it had to be. Chummy listened out¬ 
side of Stefansky’s room and sometimes came 
down full of foreboding, and regretting deeply 
that Patuffa had not left things alone instead of 
procuring this reappearance for the old violinist. 
For he had lost his power, lost his grip, lost 
sensitiveness and delicacy, and above all lost his 
splendor of interpretation. 

On one of the days when Chummy was most 
unhappy about his old friend, Patuffa, who had 
been playing in Edinburgh, arrived at Headquar¬ 
ters to find the family in the last stages of anxiety 
and disintegration. In Irene’s words, calm but 
forceful, Stefansky had been leaping about like a 
tiger, pacing the house like a lion, roaring like 
a stag. Then retiring to his den, he had locked 
the door, fallen to practising like one possessed, 
and would suffer no one to be his audience. In 
vain Chummy, Irene and Maria had knocked at 
the barred citadel. 

“ Go away,” he had screamed. “ I want no 
pigs of an audience.” 

But Patuffa had never been intimidated by him 
in his worst moods. She banged at the door re¬ 
morselessly and called out: 

t£ It’s the devil’s child wanting to come in. 
Please let me in at once, Papa Stefansky.” 


PAT UFFA 


153 


There was a pause. Then the door was un¬ 
locked, and flung open violently. 

“ You may come in,’’ he said roughly, “ but I 
am in a so great rage with myself and the whole 
so beastly world, Patuffe; I warn you, I am in a 
so great rage.” 

“ I don’t care if you are,” she said. “ I’ve 
come to be your pig of an audience, and I’m just 
jolly well going to be. When have I been fright¬ 
ened of you in a rage ? Never — have I ? ” 

u Never,” he cried, waving his bow about. 

“ Very well,” she continued. “ Now it’s your 
turn to stand on the mat, and it’s my turn to sit 
and listen and to say at the end: ' Bravo, bravo, 
never have I heard Papa Stefansky so wonderful 
before. This shall be your career! Hein — 
isn’t it so? y ” 

His face cleared. His rage died away. Sun¬ 
shine came into his troubled spirit. 

“ I obey you,” he laughed gaily, as he took up 
his position. 

She listened, and her heart sank. The Con¬ 
certo was beyond him as he now was. But she 
masked her feelings, applauded him, nodded to 
him reassuringly when he fixed her with his little 
bright piercing eyes, whilst all the time she was 
torn with doubts and tortured by the reflection 
that it was she who had run him into danger and 
perhaps disgrace — she who had forced circum¬ 
stances, which had far better been left alone. 
After all, he had had his hour, his long career 


154 


PATUFFA 


of triumphs and success, and as Chummy said, it 
would have been kinder and wiser to let him slip 
away home to Prague, saddened and angered and 
embittered perhaps, but not disgraced by failure, 
or at least by efforts w T hich were unworthy of his 
past achievements. 

Yet would he fail? He might not. He might 
be able, on the platform, on the actual scene of 
former glory, to pull himself together and give 
a rendering of the Beethoven Concerto which 
would make all other interpretations seem in com¬ 
parison futile and feeble and uninspired. Patuffa 
believed that this might happen. But perhaps she 
believed it because she wished to believe it. Yet 
her ordeal was a severe one as she strained every 
chord of her sensibility to give him the apprecia¬ 
tion and enthusiasm which he demanded as his 
unalienable right, and which she knew it was neces¬ 
sary for him to have at this critical moment. 

She did not fail him. She gave him all she 
had to give; and he rose triumphant from the 
ashes of his soul’s secret despair and doubt. 

Downstairs she was truculent and rude with 
Chummy and Irene. 

“ You know nothing about it,” she said, her 
eyes going to a pin’s point. “ His power is all 
there. No one can take from him his phrasing, 
his pure tone, his personal magnetism. He will 
be splendid and magnificent when the time comes.” 

Stefansky changed from that hour. He for¬ 
got all his grievances. No longer was the world 


PATUFFA 


155 


against him. No longer did he inveigh against 
all other artists. He recovered his gaiety and 
his fun, and Headquarters became a relatively 
peaceful spot undisturbed by continuous earth¬ 
quakes. If he had not been lovable at intervals, 
he would have been unbearable. 

His jealousy of Patuffa appeared to have sub¬ 
sided or at least to be in abeyance. He took a 
deep interest in her Joseph Guarnerius fiddle, 
tested it, played on it, praised it, wished always to 
hear where she had been playing and what she 
had been playing. He was delighted when she 
took part in quartets. 

“ Quartet-playing is better than anything, 
Patuffe,” he said, nodding approval. “ It is the 
most beautiful medium for expression, and most 
satisfying to one’s soul. I do wish I had done 
more of it.” 

He insisted on seeing her press notices, and she 
brought them reluctantly and with many mis¬ 
givings. But she need have had no fear: for he 
took an unselfish joy and pride in them, and said 
that for once the so great idiots of critics were 
showing a little sense — as much sense as they 
could show — the idiots. The bad or indifferent 
notices he swore at, though he probably enjoyed 
them a little. 

“ Go on, my devil’s child,” he said, “ keep al¬ 
ways your enthusiasm and a very, very fierce 
ambition, be very diligent, and look always, always 
in the direction of the mountains and see with your 


156 


PATUFFA 


mind’s eye the burning vision-—hein, isn’t it so? 
That I have not always done — I know that well, 
Patuffe. No one knows it better than I. Still 
you must do it — you must see the burning vision 
yourself and show it to the world. Yet, in a 
sense I have remained great — very, very great. 
An old man, but I have the tone so rich and pure, 
and I have the true musical sensibility unimpaired 
by time and the splendor and the poetry—and 
the verve. Ah, I am wonderful. If any change, 
only a change for the more wonderful. Isn’t it 
so r 

“ Yes, yes,” she answered, lying stoutly. 

“ Ah, my Patuffe believes in me,” he nodded. 
“ She shall see what I shall do at the damned 
Concert. I will surprise every one. I will sur¬ 
prise myself.” 

His sunniness and kindness increased as the 
days went on, and one morning he said to 
Chummy: 

“ Old and faithful friend, yesterday in the 
night, I suddenly thought that neveer had I been 
grateful enough to you for your kindness. In¬ 
deed, Chummy, I have neveer been grateful to you 
at all, at all! That was very queer of me, wasn’t 
it? How strange it is that now I feel it all in one 
big lump, Chummy, and want to get rid of it. 
Here it is, and you will please to take it.” 

Chummy looked positively bewildered by this 
unwonted and unexpected tribute. But being only 
human, he was glad to be thanked for once. 


PATUFFA 


157 


Irene, too, came in for a share of tender grati¬ 
tude, expressed, it is true, in curious phrase¬ 
ology. 

u I neveer read, my little kind Irene, as you 
know,” he said. “ But I have forced myself to 
read three chapters of your so clever and dull 
book. And perhaps I read three more for your 
sake — and perhaps not! Hein, what say you 
to that, for Papa Stefansky’s true devotion? For 
no one else on this wicked earth would he take 
that very huge trouble! ” 

Maria was made more than happy by his con¬ 
stant demand for cheese straws and his praise of 
her skill. 

“ They are marvelous, Maria,” he said. “ I 
shall play magnificent at the damned Concert be¬ 
cause you have given me the good strengths by 
your so marvelous straws of the cheese.” 

And as for Mama, he ceased to vex and tease 
her about his portrait, and said he was quite sure 
that it was just as much like him as any picture 
could ever be of any one, and he was horrified, 
yes, horrified to hear that little Patufie had been 
rude and disagreeable about it to the painter 
whom Madame Mama honored with her love. 
Patuffa had gone to his house and apologized — 
had she? Ah, well, that was something. But she 
had no right to be rude. Because she play very, 
very beautifully, Madame Mama, and would al¬ 
ways play better if she was good and diligent and 
practised till her arm came off, that was no reason 


158 


PATUFFA 


why she should be rude. And it was his portrait. 
Not hers. He was the only person who must be 
rude. Aha, he had done something in the direc¬ 
tion himself. That was enough. 

“ More than enough,” he said, kissing Mama’s 
hand gallantly. “ And I observe Madame Mama 
to be more beautiful and stately than ever be¬ 
cause she is in love with that so lucky painter. 
Helas, would that the horrid old Stefansky was 
that so damned lucky painter.” 

Mama laughed and blushed; and the rift in the 
lute was mended. 

But Irene wrote in her diary: 

“ I am uneasy in my mind about Papa Stefan¬ 
sky. It is not natural for him to be so angelic and 
good for such a long period. I’d far rather we 
had a scene or two. However, no one seems to 
share my vague and perhaps stupid anxiety, and 
so I keep my own counsel.” 

II 

The day before the Concert, Patuffa, coming 
out from the Steinway Hall where she had been 
playing two solos at a Song Recital given by a 
well-known baritone, found Keble waiting for her. 
She had not done herself justice, for she was feel¬ 
ing nervy and anxious about the morrow, and 
w 7 hen she saw Keble, she suddenly realized that 
she wanted sympathy and that he was the wrong 
person to give it. 


PATUFFA 


159 


“ You here, Keble,” she said, half pleased and 
half cross. “ Why aren’t you different from what 
you are? Then I could confide in you.” 

u Couldn’t you manage to confide in me even 
as I am? ” he asked with one of his smiles. “ I 
might be worse, you know. Always remember 
that.” 

“ I do remember it, I assure you,” she laughed. 
“ But even then I should not dream of confiding 
in you. Oh, it’s nothing, either. I played badly. 
Not in the mood. No go in me. A bit worried 
and anxious. Awfully anxious.” 

He did not press her for any confidence, but 
said: 

“ Well, well, come and have some tea at Bus- 
zards’, and then let us go to the Alpine Club and 
take a look at some of the new mountain photo¬ 
graphs. They are perfectly lovely, and the sight 
of them will rest you.” 

They rested her. He rested her. Almost she 
confided to him her great anxiety. Almost she 
said to him: “ If Stefansky fails to-morrow, and 
is broken-hearted, it will be my fault.” 

But pride on her old master’s behalf and her 
own kept her silent. She looked long and intently 
at the mountain peaks and mountain ranges and 
glaciers, and Stefansky’s words were wafted to 
her: 

“ Look always, always in the direction of the 
mountains, and see with your mind s eye the burn¬ 
ing vision.” 


160 


PATUFFA 


If only the burning vision might be his on the 
morrow. That was the secret hope of her heart. 

Ill 

So the day of the Concert dawned. And in the 
paper that morning it was announced that the 
Princess of Wales would be present. Stefansky’s 
joy and pride knew no bounds, but he was quietly, 
not boisterously, exultant. It seemed as if his 
belief in himself had reached the climax where 
calm reigns supreme and looks down benignly on 
the low-lying plains of ordinary endeavor and at¬ 
tainment. 

“ Aha,” he said, u you see, Royalty comes to 
hear the so great Stefansky. It is well. It is as 
it should be. You see, Chummy, you see, Irene, 
you see, Patuffe, I had only to show myself.” 

The truth was that the Princess of Wales was 
attending the Concert because her protegee, a 
young Danish singer whom she had imported, was 
making her debut. Patuffa learnt this from Hen- 
dered, but kept her counsel, and did not even 
share her information with Chummy and Irene. 
They knew from other sources, but did not 
breathe a w'ord to her. It was a conspiracy of 
love and silence, and it needed a fair amount of 
craft on all sides to keep the secret intact. But 
it was kept intact. Stefansky believed to the end 
that he, and he only, was the magician who had 
enticed Royalty from Marlborough House. 


PATUFFA 


161 


Before he went to the Concert, Stefansky lin¬ 
gered some time alone in his room. He wrote 
something on a piece of paper which he folded 
carefully and put into his violin case. He took it 
out again, read it once more, nodded, smiled and 
replaced it. He overhauled his Stradivarius vio¬ 
lin, tested the pegs, the strings, played a few 
chords, touched the harmonics, and after he had 
satisfied himself that all was well with it, he held 
it out at arm’s length and addressed it softly in a 
caressing voice: 

u Beloved friend — how beautiful and perfect 
are your curves, how more exquisite than any 
flower are the markings on your matchless form 

— your varnish — was there ever such rich and 
luscious varnish seen on any other violino? No 

— never. We have traveled together the world 
over, you and I, and never once have you failed 
the so great Stefansky. Not always great, it is 
true. Not always have I kept to the heights of 
the divinest Art. That I know well, and am 
ashamed. But to-day I leave the valleys and I 
mount once more. Help me to mount, beloved 
friend. Fail not your old and very, very tired 
comrade. Perhaps I ask it for the last time.” 

With infinite tenderness he returned it to its 
case, and stood for a moment lost in thought. 
Fie looked frail, and ashen and aged, with his 
usual animation in suspense and his face in 
repose. 

He received nothing of an ovation when he 


162 


PATUFFA 


stepped on the platform. To the new public his 
name was practically unknown; and to the older 
generation of concert goers, he was only a legend 
— barely that. But some of the orchestra knew 
what he had stood for in the past, and one of the 
’cellists rose in respect. If he had expected a 
tremendous reception, he must surely have been 
discouraged. But he showed no sign of disheart- 
enment as he glanced round the Hall with a calm, 
confident smile on his face, and then quietly waited 
with closed eyes whilst the orchestra poured forth 
the grand opening strains preliminary to the entry 
of the solo violino. 

Then, when the moment came, he raised his 
bow, and those who loved him held their breath. 
His octaves rang out clear and rallying like a 
challenge, and thus he entered the lists. From 
the very onset he arrested and held his audience. 
None of his qualities failed him now. He had 
been a master of phrasing and of all beauties of 
detail, and in the past his amazingly perfect tech¬ 
nique and his tone, rich and pure, literally drawn 
from the instrument, free, disembodied, had ever 
astounded and entranced his hearers. He gave 
the Allegro with power and fire and richness of 
coloring, and in his Cadenza he was magnificent. 
On the divine beauties of the slow movement he 
spread a mantle of poetic idealism, and in the 
Rondo his verve and restrained “ abandon ” were 
nothing short of perfect. He gave, in fact, an in¬ 
terpretation of a truly spiritual nature to Bee- 


P A T U F F A 


163 


thoven’s most noble work. He opened the door 
of the soul of Music for all to enter. 

Who can say what secret renewal enriched his 
tone, restored his waning powers? Who can say 
what inspired him, what spurred him on to reach 
the heights once more and see the burning vision? 

When the last notes of the orchestra had died 
away, there was a moment of silence — the great¬ 
est tribute an artist can receive, and then a storm 
of applause rose. Stefansky bowed and bowed, 
with his hand to his heart, and went off the plat¬ 
form. He was recalled with an overwhelming 
enthusiasm. The orchestra stood to do him hom¬ 
age and shouted his name. The audience sprang 
up to honor and greet him. The Hall resounded 
with “ Stefansky — Stefansky — bravo — 
bravo. }) 

A laurel wreath was handed to him — Patuffa’s 
gift. He took it, and glanced now in this direc¬ 
tion, now in that, half dazed, and as if scanning 
the space for some one whom his eyes sought in 
vain. 

Suddenly he swayed, and fell forwards near the 
first violins. 

When they raised him, he was dead. 

Dead, with a quiet smile of triumph on his face. 

He had come into his own Kingdom again, and 
heard once more and for the last time the sweet 
music of the applause of the world. 

He had seen the burning vision and shown it 
to others. 


CHAPTER XIII 


D ID Stefansky have a presentiment that the 
supreme effort he was going to make that 
evening would be too much for his 
strength? Had he been secretly conscious that 
his powers would need to be taxed to their utter¬ 
most to give utterance to a Swan Song worthy of 
the illustrious name which had once been his? 
Who could tell? The only sign was the piece of 
paper found in the case of his Stradivari violin 
with these few words written on it, together with 
the date of the Concert: “ I give to Patuffe Rend- 
ham, the devil’s child, my so beautiful Stradivari 
violino, far, far more beautiful than the Joseph 
Guarnerius given by the idiot woman in Manches¬ 
ter— to use when Papa Stefansky have joined 
the other so great comrades of the violino — but 
not greater than Stefansky — hein, Patuffe?” 

Chummy placed the Stradivari and the precious 
piece of paper in her hands and she received them 
in silence. They all tried in their own different 
ways to comfort her. They knew that she was 
considering herself responsible for the death of 
her old Master, since it was entirely due to her 
influence that he had once more appeared at the 

Philharmonic. But for her, he would still have 

164 


PATUFFA 


165 


been amongst them, angry, perhaps, jealous, full 
of his varying moods of lovableness and hateful¬ 
ness — but alive, of them, with them, understood 
and cherished by those who knew him well. It 
was she and she only who had sped him on his 
way. 

“ Nothing here for tears, dear Fatuffa,” 
Chummy had said gently. u Our old friend is 
well at rest, honored and acclaimed as he would 
wish.” 

“ I know,” she had answered. “ I know.” 

As for Mama, the slight estrangement which 
had been growing up between herself and Patuffa 
received a check when the blow of Stefansky’s 
death fell. Mama forgave Patuffa’s disappoint¬ 
ing hostility to Steyning, crept out of her en¬ 
chanted region and showered all her love and her 
care on her child whom no one could reach. 
Steyning had to stand aside in those first days 
following on the tragedy of the Philharmonic 
Concert, and he did not like it. He faded from 
Mama’s mind as she and Patuffa sat together 
hand in hand, in sorrowful silence. Mama’s 
thoughts went back to years ago when Patuffa’s 
little sister Susie had died, and Patuffa had taken 
on herself the guilt of her death because of her 
own bullying tyranny which had brought about a 
crisis. And here was the same suffering again, 
intense, silent, tearless, unreachable. 

“ He died as he would have wished to die — a 
king,” Mama whispered. 


166 


PATUFFA 


“ I know,” Patuffa said. “ I know.” 

She took the Stradivari violin out of its case 
times without number, turned it over and replaced 
it silently. If she could have given utterance to 
some of her thoughts, perhaps the tension of her 
grief would have been eased. But not a word 
escaped her of what she was feeling and thinking. 
Irene probably got the nearest to her inaccessibil¬ 
ity, perhaps because they had both shared in the 
sweetest part of Stefansky’s nature — his tender 
love for little children which nothing in his life 
had ever touched or tainted, even as nothing in his 
life had ever changed the purity of his affection 
for these two as the years passed on their swift 
course. 

Keble suffered intensely over her suffering. He 
would have given anything to have recalled his 
words which had angered and hurt her, and to 
have shown a generous instead of a mean spirit 
towards her old Master. He told her this. Her 
answer comforted him a little. 

“ I’m sure of it,” she told him. “ But there is 
no feud about that now. Feuds don’t seem worth 
while.” 

‘‘I do want to tell you that he was magnifi¬ 
cent,” Keble said. “ I do want you to know that 
all my homage was his when I heard him.” 

“ Good old Keble to own up,” she murmured. 

Madame Tcharushin, whose own courage in 
the trials and dangers of life had ever been an in¬ 
spiration to Patuffa, used no words of actual con- 


PATUFFA 


167 


solation to her, but when Patuffa saw that gallant 
little presence, she said herself: 

“ You bring courage as usual, Pat.” 

Madame Tcharushin shook her head. 

“ I don’t need to bring it, my Patuffska,” she 
said. u It is here already — always has been and 
always will be here if I know my godchild.” 

But George Hendered helped her the most. 
He was impelled to come and see her, and the 
very first words he spoke had something of heal¬ 
ing in them. 

“ You were more than justified in your trust in 
your old Master’s powers,” he said. “ H,e was 
magnificent, colossal, head and shoulders above 
every one. And now I ask you to imagine what 
you forced me to do for him, Miss Rendham, 
entirely by your belief, yes, and by the impression 
which your gratitude and your unselfishness and 
your loyalty to him made on my dulled and dead¬ 
ened spirit. Could any artist wish for a more 
glorious ending? Could you? No, you could 
not. Supposing that you yourself had lived 
through a long and famous career, and then had 
passed into comparative insignificance and sud¬ 
denly were given the chance to sum up your life’s 
work with an outburst of glorious effort which 
placed your name and fame on an immortal rec¬ 
ord? Would not you think that something big 
was being done for you? You gave him life — 
not death. That is what you have to remember. 
It is not your part to mourn, but to rejoice. 


168 


PATUFFA 


There is not one single artist whom I have seen 
mount the platform, who would not have chosen 
Stefansky’s last glory and his last farewell. You 
will see this later, if you cannot see it now.” 

“ Shall I? ” she said, with a faint smile of hope 
on her face. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ Believe me, and come 
and tell me some day that I was right.” 

They buried Stefansky in Chummy’s family 
vault in Paddington Green Cemetery. It had 
been a sweet and rural spot when, twenty-six 
years previously, Irene’s mother had been low¬ 
ered into the grave and Chummy had stood lonely 
and desolate, believing, what proved true in his 
case, that no other woman could ever take her 
place, either in his heart or his home. Even now, 
in this crowded city of graves there were trees 
remaining to catch the glint of the sunshine and 
capture the soft music of the breezes and the 
orchestra of the storm, and if one lingered there 
at the hour of sunset one might see a vision of 
splendor, or if not a whole vision, then, behind 
the clouds, a few fleeting signs of hidden beauty 
striving to express themselves in terms of splen¬ 
dor, and failing and attaining, even as human be¬ 
ings strive and fail and attain. 

All over the world flashed the news of the great 
Stefansky’s death. The fame which he had al¬ 
most lost in life, was restored to him by death in 
full measure and overflowing. 


CHAPTER XIV 


I 

S HE roused herself in courageous fashion and 
passed on her way. But her natural zest 
was in abeyance, and for the moment her 
playing lacked one of her best qualities, verve. 
Not always. There were one or two occasions 
when it was all the more impassioned for the suf¬ 
fering of spirit through which she was passing: 
but the success and applause she won those nights 
appeared to give her no joy, no pride. 

Pier friends knew, of course, that time would 
mitigate the shock she had received, and that her 
eagerness and ambition would renew themselves 
tenfold; but meantime they longed to see her her¬ 
self again and to witness the return of her natural 
buoyancy. Mama would have been positively 
thankful to hear her being rude to Steyning, for 
at least that would have been a sign positive of 
the renewal of normal conditions. 

But there was no such sign. On the contrary, 
Patuffa at this period was relatively agreeable to 
him, so much so, that in the privacy of his studio, 
Steyning reflected that if she could always be 

“ under the weather ” as now, he might have 

169 


170 


PATUFFA 


some chance of getting on fairly comfortably with 
her. Also he had been encouraged by her abrupt 
visit to him to say she was “ rather sorry ” for 
her rudeness about Stefansky’s portrait. She had 
dashed in on her way to Victoria station, and had 
said with a half defiant, half ashamed expression 
on her face: 

“Stepfather-to-be, I’m really rather sorry — 
not much — but rather. Please forgive me.” 

And then she had dashed off, before he had 
time to recover from the unexpectedness of her 
arrival, or to assure her that he did forgive her. 
Well, it was her fashion — not a fashion he liked 
— but there it was. She had meant all right. He 
must take it at that. And now she was not being 
rude to him at all, but, in her staccato manner, 
almost friendly. 

Oddly enough it was Mama who could very 
well have been rude to poor Steyning, for she half 
resented that he had come into her life to raise 
a barrier between Patuffa and herself. For bar¬ 
rier there was. But for him she could have surely 
helped Patuffa with undivided heart. Why 
wasn’t she free ? Did she want to be free ? Poor 
Mama did not know what she wanted. She 
wanted Steyning and could not give up Patuffa. 
She wanted Patuffa and could not give up Stey- 
ning. She wanted the old intimacy, the old rela¬ 
tionship with Patuffa, and she wanted the new 
love and the “ ordered serenity.” Was the new 
happiness, however wonderful, worth the loss? 



PATUFFA 


171 


What had she been thinking of to allow herself to 
love Steyning and be loved by him? And what 
would she do without him if she let him go? 

She took her doubts and torments as usual to 
Coptic Street, and Madame Tcharushin told her 
not to be a duffer. 

“ My dear Marionska,” she said, “ I don’t say 
it is too late to throw over your love affair, be¬ 
cause nothing is too late. If you want to throw 
it over, it is easy enough. You are not going to 
kill your young man of fifty-six years old. No, 
my friend. He will survive quite safely, and con¬ 
tinue quietly painting his portraits and exhibiting 
them in your so dull and uninteresting Royal 
Academy. I see them, year after year, in the 
large room, Marionska, a boring procession of 
fashionable ladies, Bishops, Lord Mayors and 
Masters of the Hounds, uninterrupted by 
Mama’s shocking fickleness and amusing unrea¬ 
sonableness. Be sure of that. But what do you 
gain? Some day soon Patuffa leaves you — and 
then you have neither Patuffa nor your adorable 
Andrew. Not even me, perhaps, since by that 
time I may be in the Schlusselburg Fortress, if not 
comfortably hanged.” 

“ If only I had waited until she had married,” 
mourned Mama. 

“ Haven’t we agreed that you might wait un¬ 
til the last trump,” said Madame Tcharushin. 
“ Haven’t we decided that if Patuffska some day 
makes up her mind to give up her freedom and 


172 


PATUFFA 


marry—Cousin Keble — I hope not indeed — 
or any one else, she will quite certainly leave her 
beloved husband in a great rage and come back 
to you exactly as she used to run away from 
school. Haven’t w r e together seen her arriving, 
and heard her saying: 1 Mama, I’m here. I’ve 
come home. I’ve left that hateful man. I have 
torn out all his hair, and I shall never go back 
to him! ’ ” 

Mama laughed, in spite of herself. 

“ Well, at least, I should be waiting for her,’ T 
she said. 

“ Nonsense,” said Madame Tcharushin, 
“ waiting sounds sentimental and pretty in a book, 
Marionska, but in real life, it is not gay. Don’t 
be ridiculous. Marry your Steyning man if you 
really want him. Spring now, if you are going to 
spring. Patuffa will find her own way. For the 
moment you think her pathetic, poor child, and so 
she is, but she’ll not remain pathetic if I know 
anything of life. No one remains pathetic for a 
long time. And you cannot help her much. It is 
not people that will help her now. People never 
help any one. Only things help one. They are 
the best help, because they help unconsciously. 
Tell Chummy to take her to Rome. I have this 
day been reading about some new exciting excava¬ 
tions there. Well, let her go and see those exca¬ 
vations and the other wonderful things in Rome, 
and you go on peacefully with your love-making. 


PATUFFA 


173 


Patuffa will recover. For the moment she hears 
Stefansky singing his last glorious song — and it 
was glorious. If I hear it all the time, if it haunts 
me, think you, what must it not be doing to her? 
For the moment she sees him fall. She sees him 
dead. She is tortured by the belief that she has 
had a direct hand in killing him. But the song 
will grow dim, Marionska, the vision will fade 
and the self accusation will pass. Life gives 
us these mercies. You know that. I know 
that.” 

She paused as the scene of the tragedy rose be¬ 
fore them both. The silence between them was 
dedicated to Stefansky’s memory. 

She gave herself a little shake, as if to show 
she had thrown off some of this sadness, and said 
with a ghost of a mischievous smile: 

“ And let us hope with ail our hearts that be¬ 
fore so very very long Patuffska will be rude to 
your Steyning man. I think she will. Then you 
will be angry and you will recover. We will all 
recover in a procession! But she must go away 
and leave her music and her present surroundings 
for a little. Rome is a good idea because it is my 
idea. I will tell Chummy. He will spring to it, 
as you must spring, Marionska, in another direc¬ 
tion ! ” 

She told Chummy, and he did “ spring to it.” 
Rome, the very thing! Why had he not thought 
of it himself? Rome — the new excavations — 


174 


PATUFFA 


the Forum, the Appian Way, the Vatican, St. 
Peter’s, St. Cecilia, the Catacombs, the Cam- 
pagna — and all the other delights, innumerable, 
overwhelming. Mind-healing for Patuffa, mate¬ 
rial for Irene’s pen, renewed rapture for himself. 
But wouldn’t Pat Tcharushin come also? Since 
it was her idea, wouldn’t she come? Couldn’t she 
have a little respite from her propaganda and 
plotting and revolutioning, to gather up her 
strength for further wickedness? Couldn’t she 
give herself the luxury of forgetting for a while 
the troubles of her country and her comrades, and 
seek joy and renewal in Rome? No, she couldn’t, 
she said. She only lived for the work she was 
doing. Nothing mattered to her except that. 
Chummy was good and generous as always, and 
she quite understood that he would pay her ex¬ 
penses and the expenses of the whole universe. 
But she was not free. She did not wish to be 
free. No, she would not go. But she hoped they 
would lose no time and be off as soon as Patuffa’s 
engagements allowed. 

Some of Patuffa’s distressing impassiveness 
yielded when she heard of the plan, and she was 
rude to Steyning, much to Madame Pat’s amuse¬ 
ment. Mama became vexed, recovered from her 
indecision, re-entered her own special Paradise, 
and showed that she preferred it to the Eternal 
City since she decided not to accept Chummy’s 
invitation to form one of the party of pil¬ 
grims. 


PATUFFA 


175 


II 

The night before they left, Keble came to say 
good-by, with a book or two about Italy, and 
carefully written out details of the mountain 
ranges they would skirt on their journey. Patuffa 
had been playing on Stefansky’s Stradivari for the 
first time, and her face showed signs of the emo¬ 
tions which had been stirring her. To his secret 
joy she spoke quite openly of her suffering. She 
put the violin gently down, and turned from it 
with moist eyes. 

“ This w r as the fiddle I smashed when I was a 
child,” she said. “ Imagine that. And Stefansky 
forgave me and would not let any one be angry 
with me. Yes, the very same fiddle which he val¬ 
ued above everything else in the world. And 
now it is mine — my own. But I can never in my 
life make it sing and throb as he could. I suppose 
in time I shall be able to bear playing on it. But 
not yet. If I tried to play on it at a Concert, I 
believe I should break down.” 

“ No, you wouldn’t break down,” he said. 
“ You would do your job bravely first. Of that 
I am sure. Afterwards — well, afterwards be¬ 
longs to oneself.” 

She glanced at him in swift appreciation of his 
words. 

“ Kind old Keble,” she said, and she held out 
her hand to him. 


176 


PATUFFA 


His heart gave a bound as he took it and 
nodded at her with a grave smile as if in token 
of simple comradeship. But she did not know 
of the bounding of his heart. She did not know 
how he longed to gather her in his arms and com¬ 
fort her. 

And she went on half dreamily: 

“ I still hear the Beethoven Concerto running 
in and out of all I am playing. And especially the 
Larghetto. I hear it in my dreams. I woke up 
this morning to the sound of it.” 

He stood by the window with his arms folded 
tightly together as she hummed it softly. 


PART II 







CHAPTER I 


R OME helped Patuffa from the beginning. 
She gradually threw off her depression, 
lost the haunting feeling that she had been 
the cause of Stefansky’s death, mourned his loss 
and could speak of him without morbid emotion, 
and found her way out into the sunshine of life 
once more. She became caught up, as all are, with 
the wonders of the Eternal City. 

Chummy had established himself and his chil¬ 
dren in the Hotel B., in the Piazza Barberini, 
whence they made frequent expeditions to the 
Vatican where he liked to spend hours studying 
the statuary. Now and again his two eager com¬ 
rades struck when he had lingered more than two 
hours, say, in contemplation of one single statue, 
and reminded him gently but firmly that there 
were a few other things to see in Rome. Then 
he would laugh, become less acute and let them do 
with him what they wished. Sometimes they 
abandoned him in despair, but not often. They 
were too fond of being with him to want to lose 
a minute of his company. 

But in spite of the demands of the Vatican 
sculpture galleries, they found plenty of time for 

the Forum, the Colosseum, innumerable churches, 

179 


180 


PATUFFA 


the Appian Way, the Palatine Hill, St. Peter's, 
the Catacombs, the Castle of St. Angelo, the Six- 
tine Chapel, the Lateran Museum, the Thermae 
of Diocletian and all the usual sights. They had 
nothing to complain of, those two. Chummy, 
who believed that life without Rome was unthink¬ 
able, saw to it that they missed nothing which 
might minister both to their knowledge and their 
happiness. 

“ You will weave Rome into your writing, 
Irene,” he said, “ and Patuffa will weave it into 
her music. Rome marks an epoch in one’s life if 
one has eyes to see and a spirit to understand.” 

They roamed the old streets, as a rest from art 
and history and archaeology, disported themselves 
at the rag market, were properly cheated in their 
bargains, had love letters written for them by 
the old professional letter writer under his um¬ 
brella, and haunted especially the Campo di Fiori. 
They loved to turn into a little trattoria fre¬ 
quented by the peasants, and cheat themselves into 
the belief that they belonged to this community. 
They bought their food at a shop hard by, bread 
and mortadella, settled down at a table, ordered a 
liter of red wine and proceeded to eat and drink 
and take note of their fellow guests. The one 
professional beggar allowed on the premises was 
a blind musician who played the mandolin. Here 
was a confrere, of course, and Chummy added 
him at once to the long list of “ virtuosi ” who 
had to be encouraged and courted. He began to 


PATUFFA 181 

address the artist in his very best and most stilted 
Italian. 

“ Ah, Signor, you need not take that trouble,'’ 
said the virtuoso in admirable English. u I know 
your language. I have lived seven years in 
Grimsby.” 

That was a joke Patuffa always had against 
Chummy. 

“ Remember Grimsby,” she would whisper, 
when he launched into Italian. 

The gentleman from Grimsby was followed by 
ancient women selling baskets and sponges and 
brushes; and every one appeared to be received 
with friendliness and indulgence. The family 
spread itself in the rear, and the children tumbled 
about amongst the peasants who gave them a 
good time. Good temper prevailed, and no one 
was in a hurry. Chummy and his party were ac¬ 
cepted as if they were natural habitues of the 
place and lifelong friends of the owners. It was 
a relaxation from the effort of living up to the 
social high water mark of the hotel; and adven¬ 
tures of this nature gave the brain a chance to 
disentangle itself from the complications of Re¬ 
publican Rome, Imperial Rome, Medieval Rome. 
Caesars and Senators and Tribunes and Popes, 
statues and frescoes and excavations, were held 
in suspense. 

There were times when Patuffa gave her com¬ 
panions the slip and went off on adventures alone 
with her sketch-book. She had very little talent 


182 


PATUFFA 


for drawing, and made appalling sketches which 
gave her tremendous satisfaction. 

Her favorite hunting-ground was the Forum 
and the precincts of the Capitol. She loved the 
Ara Coeli, with its ancient columns and pavement 
and medieval slab tombs. She loved to stand on 
the flight of steps leading from the Piazza Campi- 
doglio and look towards the blue hills which al¬ 
ways filled her heart with longing; and her other 
cherished vantage point was the staircase adjacent 
to the Tabalarium, with its spreading vision of 
the Forum, and beyond, the Colosseum, and be¬ 
yond, the everlasting hills. She generally made 
these private excursions when Chummy was rest¬ 
ing or having Italian lessons, and Irene was writ¬ 
ing up her notes or her diary to which she was 
wedded. Patuffa sniffed at a diary. 

“ Write it all down instead in your so idiot 
head,” she would say, using the language of Papa 
Stefansky. 

One day when she was wandering in the Forum, 
she came upon a man sketching in the court of the 
House of the Vestals. She could not resist glanc¬ 
ing at his picture, and he looked up and smiled. 

“ Not much of a picture, I fear,” he said. “ I 
don’t think I should recognize what it was, my¬ 
self.” 

“ I don’t think I should either,” she said, re¬ 
turning his smile. “ But it isn’t worse than some 
of the things I attempt, which overwhelm me with 
unbounded pride. This, for instance, of the Re- 


PATUFFA 


183 


lief — the one with old Trajan handing the 
tessera. Isn’t it funny? But I consider it a tri¬ 
umph of art because Fve done it.” 

He looked at the sketch-book which she was 
holding open for him, and remarked in his pleas¬ 
ant voice: 

“ Well, I’m glad you’ve told me beforehand 
the subject of your masterpiece.” 

She laughed, and said: 

“ I think I will have a shot at this particular 
spot which is my favorite bit in the Forum.” 

She sat down on one of the stones and went to 
work without further delay. He continued his 
own task, and from time to time they paused from 
their labors and talked. 

People passed near them, glanced at the statues 
of the Vestales Maximae and the rainwater cis¬ 
tern, and went on their way. One or two lingered 
to read the inscriptions on the bases of the statues. 
When Patuffa had finished her sketch she com¬ 
pared it with his, and they decided that a prize 
should be given to each of them, as there was 
nothing to choose between their merits or de¬ 
merits. When she rose to go on further, he rose 
too, and by tacit mutual agreement they strolled 
about together, where their fancy led them, along 
the Via Sacra, to the Arch of Titus, or past the 
Rostra and the Temple of Faustina, and the huge 
arches of the Basilica of Constantine to S. Fran¬ 
cesca Romana. He was as enthusiastic as herself 
and as impressionable; and as they were not 


184 


PATUFFA 


weighted down with archaeological knowledge, 
their enjoyment was purely spontaneous and emo¬ 
tional. With a few leading details to help them, 
they got what they both sought — atmosphere. 

He was a man of perhaps twenty-eight years 
of age, tall, good-looking, and fair, and with blue 
eyes, and of a singularly charming voice. He 
was entirely impersonal in his manner, and yet 
so frank and natural that Patuffa could almost 
have believed that he was an old friend instead 
of a passing acquaintance she had “ picked up 
with ” over a sketch-book. He did not give his 
name, nor ask hers. He told her nothing about 
himself, nor showed any curiosity about her. 
They talked of the churches they had seen, of the 
overwhelming vastness of St. Peter’s and the 
glories of the Vatican, of the strange fascination 
of the Campagna, and the interest of the Appian 
Way, of the Pope and the Papal Guard, of S. 
Onoforio where Tasso died, and of the sunsets 
and blue hills which he loved as much as she. 
They compared notes and impressions, and finally 
they parted in the same easy and casual fashion in 
which they had entered into comradeship. But 
after he had gone, Patuffa stood, by the Column 
of Phocas, wondering about him, smiling over 
their bits of fun, over their respective sketches, 
and hoping that she would come across him again. 
Nearly she had said to him: “ I do hope we shall 
meet again.” But she did not say it. Something 
restrained her, certainly not any acute reverence 


PATUFFA 


185 


for the conventionalities which did not exist for 
her, but rather a very unusual sense of shyness. 

She went back to Chummy and Irene, full of 
her adventure. They chaffed her, called him 
“ the Unknown One,” and undertook to keep 
their eyes open everywhere for a young man an¬ 
swering to Patuffa’s detailed description. For 
several days, they saw no signs of him. They 
met him neither at the Vatican, nor on the Pincio, 
nor on the Palatine, where they went several 
times, nor in the Colosseum, nor in any of the 
churches and galleries. But one morning when 
they mounted the steep flight of steps to S. Gre¬ 
gorio Magno, there he was sketching in the 
atrium. He looked up, saw Patuffa, smiled his 
sunny smile and began: 

“ Now what do you think of this for a sketch? 
Could you do better? I doubt it! I consider it 
quite an achievement, except for the doorway 
which I grant is not perfect. Why not have a 
try? And then we could make a picture of the 
archway to SS. Giovanni e Paolo, and another of 
the outside precincts, a subject truly worthy of 
our consummate art.” 

Then he glanced at Chummy and Irene, and 
realized that his friend was in their company. 
But this discovery did not seem unwelcome to 
him. He turned to Chummy in most friendly 
fashion. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” he said. “ Companions of 
the sketch-book — rivals.” 


186 


PATUFFA 


“ Yes, I heard,” Chummy said, smiling. “ Go 
ahead. Don’t mind us.” 

“ A very curious impulse this impulse to sketch 
when you haven’t got the least talent,” the 
stranger confided. “ But it makes me frightfully 
happy.” 

“ Me too,” laughed Patuffa, “ even though I 
know I shall not reach immortal fame by that 
pathway. No National Gallery for me.” 

“ You don’t know,” said Chummy. “ Genius 
sometimes develops late.” 

Patuffa whipped out her sketch-book, winked 
at Irene and tweaked her ear. Irene whispered 
to her father as they moved off together: 

“ A romance, Chummy. What fun — isn’t 
it?” 

“ I suppose if I were a heavy father, I should 
stop it,” he answered. “ But not being of that 
sect, I leave it alone. Besides, it’s a bit of a spree 
for Patuffa and will do her good. And she can 
very well take care of herself without our inter¬ 
ference. An engaging young man.” 

“ Such blue eyes,” said Irene with fervor. 
“ Patuffa always loved blue eyes.” 

Chummy laughed: 

“ We shall have you foregathering with some 
one in the Forum soon. A good thing if you did 
do something of that sort, my child. As I’ve re¬ 
marked so often, you oughtn’t always to be tied 
down to a prehistoric parent. Couldn’t you man¬ 
age a mild flirtation or two if nothing more? 


PATUFF A 


187 


You’ve had, plenty of chances, and a bright ex¬ 
ample in Patuffa.” 

“ Patuffa can do enough in that line for us 
both,” she said. “ Cousin Keble in the dim back¬ 
ground, but there, always there; and intermittent, 
new affairs to keep her going.” 

She was always indulgently ready to aid and 
abet anything that Patuffa was after; and so now 
she purposely lengthened their visit to the in¬ 
terior of S. Gregorio in order not to spoil her 
friend’s adventure with the young man of the 
blue eyes. 

She lingered unnecessarily long in the Capella 
Salviati as though spell-bound by the ancient 
Madonna which is said to have addressed S. 
Gregorio. The old granite columns and fifteenth- 
century sculptures of the altar exacted from her 
a searching attention which even Chummy deemed 
too thorough. The sentinel cypresses in the gar¬ 
den detained her unduly, and when at length they 
passed into the chapels, she appeared to be riv¬ 
eted by the picture of the martyrdom of St. An¬ 
drew and by the marble table at which S. Gre¬ 
gorio entertained daily twelve poor guests, leav¬ 
ing a thirteenth place empty, which was one day 
filled by an angel. 

“ Should not this legend alone be able to dispel 
the evil omen of a thirteenth seat?” she asked. 
She enlarged on this theme. 

She was altogether a brick, was Irene: but 
when she could delay no longer, they joined 


188 


PATUFFA 


Patuffa and the Unknown One who accepted their 
companionship as if he belonged naturally to the 
party. 

He was light-hearted, joyous, and endowed 
with a quizzical kind of charm, most attractive. 
Either he found nothing strange in the sudden¬ 
ness of his intimacy, or else only pretended that 
life was merely proceeding “ according to plan.” 
But the result was pleasant for them all; for 
though he was in a sense Patuffa’s property, no 
one felt out in the cold. They sketched bits of the 
exterior of SS. Giovanni and Paolo and the ad¬ 
joining Passionist Monastery. They laughed and 
ate their lunch and drank Genzano and basked in 
the sunshine in this picturesque corner. They lin¬ 
gered in the church, made friends with the sacris¬ 
tan and explored the recent excavations of the 
dwelling-house of the Saints. 

Not a tiresome word of explanation passed 
between them as to who they were and why they 
were — those ever boring and unnecessary ques¬ 
tions and answers of civilized society. Chummy, 
indeed, would have been the last person to pro¬ 
duce his card, and say: “ Here is my card, and 
the name of my hotel.” To begin with, he hadn’t 
a card, and he probably forgot he had a hotel, 
since he lived always in the immediate surround¬ 
ings in which he found himself. Perhaps it was 
the same with the Unknown One. Certainly he 
had, like Chummy himself, a distinct air of irre¬ 
sponsibility and detachment. One could not have 


P A T U F F A 189 

imagined him fitting in tightly in a mosaic of 
definite design. 

But he did say to Patuffa as he hugged his 
sketchbook: 

u We must try our luck again. I think we 
ought to be able to achieve even greater master¬ 
pieces than those of to-day. I have a hankering 
after S. Agnese fuori, and there are bits on the 
Palatine that invoke my gifts. If you come that 
way, we can enter on another rivalry.” 

There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, but 
his manner was quite impersonal, friendly, inti¬ 
mate, eager, but detached. He raised his hat, 
and passed on his way down the street, and 
through the Arch of Constantine to the Colos¬ 
seum. They watched him and heard him whis¬ 
tling as he went. He was a joyous person, and 
left behind him an atmosphere of happiness. 

“ An engaging forestiere,” remarked Chummy 
with a nod of approval. “ If you had to ‘ pick 
up ’ with some one in the Forum, Patuffa, I am 
glad you chose him instead of a bland, self-con¬ 
tained smug.” 

“ I didn’t choose him, Chummy,” she said. 
“ He was there.” 

“ Do you want to see him again? ” he asked 
chafHngly. u Or have you had enough of his blue 
eyes? ” 

“ I think I too have a hankering after S. Agnese 
fuori,” she laughed softly. 

It was some time before they saw him again. 


190 


PATUFFA 

Patuffa stole off alone to S. Agnese fuori, but he 
was not there. They all went together to the 
Palatine, but he was not there. They did not see 
him in the Sixtine Chapel, nor at the Colosseum. 
He was never on the Pincio watching the entranc¬ 
ing panorama of the sunset, nor in the pleasant 
Borghese Gardens; nor in the Villa Rospigliosi; 
and not once in the Vatican did they see a sign of 
him. 

One day they took a carriage and pair and 
drove up to Genzano. The Campagna was 
bathed in that wonderful and mysterious color 
which seems to belong only to the air of Rome. 
In the sky, sapphire blue yielding into every tint 
of the opal on the horizon. Asphodels powder¬ 
ing the billows of the plain. The delicate haze 
softening harsh outlines and toning every differ¬ 
entiation of shade into a tender harmony. Rome 
in the distance, majestic, eternal with its memo¬ 
ries and splendors. 

On they mounted, past tombs, and aqueducts, 
and sheep amidst the ruins, and oxen grazing or 
plowing, past wine carts leisurely wending their 
way in a long straggling procession, past solitary 
cypresses and lonely farms. And further up¬ 
wards, past vines and olives and almond trees, 
past avenues of firs and cypresses leading to no¬ 
where, past medieval gates standing alone, past 
walls embroidered with pink stone crop, past tow¬ 
ers and ruins. The blue mountains in front. The 
vision of Rome still distinct in the rear. And 


PATUFFA 


191 


around, the golden-yellow Campagna lengthening 
into a boundless expanse, filling the soul with an 
unwonted solemnity. And soon the fairy-like 
woodland road from Ariccia onwards to Gen- 
zano, with entrancing glimpses through the trees, 
and generous revelations from the viaducts. So 
they reached Genzano, left the carriage by the 
fountain in the piazza, mounted the steep street, 
and found their way to the Albergo which over¬ 
looked the beautiful but sinister little lake of 
Nemi. 

Here, on the balcony, they found the Unknown 
One. He was eating bread and salame and drink¬ 
ing Genzano wine. When he saw them, he made 
place for them at his table, precisely as if he had 
been waiting for them and as if there had been no 
break in the continuity of their acquaintanceship. 
The sunshine of his aura spread itself over them 
all at once. It was impossible not to feel glad and 
happy in his presence. Patuffa, felt a thrill of joy 
at seeing him again. She had never been so 
drawn to any one, and had suffered secret pangs 
of disappointment during these days when the 
earth had seemed to have swallowed him up. 
Yet, for all his winning friendliness he again gave 
the impression of being detached — like the sun¬ 
shine itself, mingling, shedding warmth, light, 
joyousness, and yet something “ apart.” 

He brought out his sketch-book, and with his 
confiding smile showed her triumphantly an “ im¬ 
pression ” of the fountain in the piazza, and an- 



192 


PATUFFA 


other of a wine cart complete with mule and 
enveloping umbrella hood, driver asleep, and at¬ 
tendant dog. She laughed until the tears rolled 
down her cheeks. 

“ Well, if I can’t do as well as that or better, I 
shall tear my own hair out,” she said. 

“ I fear you’ll have to tear it out,” he answered. 
“ These pictures establish the fact that your gifts 
are not as great as mine. I’ve, been thinking seri¬ 
ously over the results of our labors, and this is the 
decision I’ve come to.” 

“ I’ll try my hand at a wine cart, and you’ll 
have to alter your decision,” Patuffa said. 

He shook his head with mock gravity. 

“ You are wrong,” he said. “ I am the greater 
genius. You may be a genius in another direction 
for all I know. . . .” 

“ She is,” put in Irene stanchly. “ That’s just 
what she is.” 

“ Nonsense,” smiled Patuffa, giving Irene a 
kick under the table. “ Don’t heed what my 
friend says. She’s deluded by affection.” 

“ I understand,” he nodded, indulgently. “ Af¬ 
fection is easily deluded.” 

But this was more than Irene could bear. 

“ You should hear the audience clapping,” she 
asserted almost indignantly. “ Then you’d 
know.” 

“ Clapping,” he repeated vaguely. u What a 
horrible thought. Such a horrible noise. So dis¬ 
turbing to the nerves.” 


PATUFFA 


198 


His apparent want of curiosity about Patuffa’s 
genius irritated Irene to such a pitch that she 
would have poured the whole of her friend’s ca¬ 
reer out on his devoted head, if another violent 
kick under the table had not warned her to behave 
herself and be silent. She stuffed her mouth with 
bread, gazed at the little town of Nemi across the 
lake, with its ancient fort, and made no further 
remarks until she was alone with Chummy, and 
then she said: 

“ I can't make head or tail of him. I like him 
very much, and I don’t like him at all. He ought 
to be told who Patuffa is, and then perhaps he 
would be less impervious to my remarks about 
her genius.” 

“ Genius be hanged,” laughed Chummy, light¬ 
ing a cigar. “ Probably this is his form of flirt¬ 
ing, and Patuffa evidently likes it. She’ll be even 
with him if she wants to. Trust her! Let us 
leave them to their sketching and go down to thq 
lake.” 

So they wandered by the shore of the lake 
fringed with withies, delicate pink of hue, with 
their young leaves not yet out; and they looked 
across at the wood-covered hills, and with their 
minds they reconstructed the Temple dedicated to 
Diana. They spoke of the dark tales those silent 
waters could tell of that far off age when Diana’s 
priest in charge was ever on the watch against 
murderous attack, hunted through those very 
woods until he fell a victim to his successor. Beau- 


194 


PATUFFA 


tiful the spot, but sinister indeed the atmosphere. 
Patuffa meantime sketched her wine cart, and a 
mule resting from its labors and eating its corn 
contentedly in a dark side passage. The Un¬ 
known drew an “ impression ” of the steep street 
and the children playing about. They amused 
themselves hugely, and Patuffa. was extraordina¬ 
rily happy. When they had finished, they wan¬ 
dered down to the lake side to find the others. 
He told her that he had been rather ill, with a 
touch of fever. 

“ That is why I did not turn up at S. Agnese,” 
he explained. “ I was disappointed.” 

“ So was I,” she owned. “ I went there.” 

He nodded as if that were a matter of course. 

“ We were on the Palatine twice,” she added. 
“ And again I thought you would be somewhere 
about.” 

“ Yes,” he said, “ and so I should have been. 
But we must meet there soon. I have planned 
all sorts of things. We must certainly have a 
shot at Livia’s House. At the Forum we ought 
to do Titus’s Arch, and of course we can’t leave 
out the Colosseum.” 

He drew a long breath, as if of relief. 

“The Colosseum — so vast,” he cried sud¬ 
denly. “ I worship vastness. That is why I love 
St. Peter’s. So vast — no walls pressing you 
round. The Campagna so vast — adorable — 
isn’t it? Always I have hated walls closing you 
in. Space — unlimited space is life to me.” 


PATUFFA 


195 


“ You should live on mountain peaks/’ Patuffa 
said. “ Then you’d have space enough to satisfy 
you.” 

“ No space could be large enough to satisfy 
me,” he exclaimed. “ I’ve been to the Canon of 
the Colorado — and even that was not large 
enough for me. Ah, such a wonder — that. You 
should go — you should see.” 

But he brushed the Canon of the Colorado 
aside, with a half-laugh of impatience, as if irrele¬ 
vant and intrusive, and spoke with almost inspired 
eloquence of the Campagna. 

“ Its sapphire light,” he ended with, “ its mys¬ 
terious haze, its embracing loneliness, its unfath¬ 
omable distances — and all the dreams conceived 
and matured in the splendor of its very vague¬ 
ness.” 

His excitation uplifted and thrilled Patuffa. 
Here was a poet — and she loved poets. For 
them no vastness great enough — for them no 
barriers barring their progress to the Distant 
Scene. From that moment she loved the Un¬ 
known One, whoever he was. 

She thought suddenly of Keble, and smiled. 
Between Keble and the Unknown One the entire 
spaces of the earth. 

She had found what she wanted. 

They all journeyed back from Genzano to¬ 
gether, in Chummy’s carriage. More than ever 
did he seem a delightful companion, light-hearted, 
and enthusiastic over all the things which they 


196 


PATUFFA 


loved. Nothing beautiful on that glorious drive 
escaped his attention. He was a worshiper of 
Nature, as well as a lover of ruins. He neither 
talked too much nor too little. Though always 
impersonal, he was so easy to be with, that it was 
incredible to suppose he was a stranger. Rather 
did he appear to be an old friend who had re¬ 
turned in the natural order of events after an 
absence of years, to the old footing of an estab¬ 
lished intimacy. When they reached Rome, he 
got out near the Piazza di Spagna. 

“ Here is my hotel,” he pointed out. “ I chose 
it because I thought I would like to be near Keats’ 
house. But I am moving higher to escape ma¬ 
laria, and am coming to the Hotel B.” 

“ That is where we are,” said Chummy. 

“ Indeed? ” he said, with no sign of personal 
interest. “ Then we shall probably meet again. 
And if not there, in some of our other haunts.” 

He lifted his hat and passed on his way. 

Patuffa’s heart beat joyously. 


CHAPTER II 


H E arrived in two or three days’ time. 
They found him at dinner, established at 
a table by himself, not very far off from 
their own. He greeted them in the most natural 
fashion, as if he had been in the hotel for weeks 
past, and was accustomed to see them pass by him 
to their own table in the corner. He joined them 
afterwards in the drawing-room, and settled 
down with them to compare notes over recent ex¬ 
periences and adventures. He was so delightful 
to Chummy and so appreciative of the old man’s 
bonhomie and of his unspoiled enthusiasm for 
Rome and its glories, that Irene, disposed to be 
critical and cautious as a protective instinct 
against her father’s recklessness in friendly inter¬ 
course with strangers of all nations and persua¬ 
sions, succumbed to the Unknown One’s charm, 
and banished from her mind the vague misdoubts 
which she felt in his presence. 

Perhaps he guessed that she was the only one 
of the trio who had any misgiving, however slight, 
about him. Perhaps he realized that in her quiet 
way she was the responsible member of the party. 
Anyway it was certain that-he was not thoroughly 

at his ease with her. Once or twice he fixed his 

197 


198 


PATUFFA 


eyes on her thoughtfully and even anxiously; and 
it was to her that he finally disclosed his identity, 
seeming to recognize that she it was who would 
be likely to require from him a passport of some 
nature. She was not conscious that he was in¬ 
tending to propitiate her, and was only amused at 
the intriguing manner in which he presented her 
with his name, half apologetically, as if he were 
transgressing a law of civilization. He ran up to 
his room and brought dow'n a new book on the 
Roman Campagna. Chummy had gone to the 
smoking-room, and Patuffa was talking to some 
South American people at the opposite end of the 
salon. He sat down by Irene’s side and showed 
her the book. 

“ I bought it to-day,” he said. “ I will lend it 
to you. You will find it very interesting. It tells 
you a good deal, and in a way which will not nec¬ 
essarily bewilder the brain as most books of in¬ 
formation do.” 

He fingered it awhile and, then let the pages 
slip back to the third page where this quotation 
from Ruskin stood inscribed: 

“ Perhaps there is no more impressive scene on 
earth than the solitary extent of the Campagna of 
Rome under evening light.” 

His own name was on the opposite page. It 
read Peter Long, and at the bottom were the 
words, “ Old Court, Wareham.” 

“ My boring name,” he said, half apologeti¬ 
cally. “ Names are boring, aren’t they? And 


PATUFFA 


199 


quite unnecessary really. But I suppose one has 
got to have a name if only to claim one’s property 
in a hotel.” 

“ Yes,” she laughed, falling in with his pre¬ 
tense. “ For the same reason my father and I 
call ourselves Tyrell, and my friend calls herself 
Patuffa Rendham.” 

His face lit up as he said: 

“ Patuffa. Ah, well, that is a name worth hav¬ 
ing. Patuffa Rendham — and where have I heard 
it, I wonder ? ” 

“ I told you she was a genius,” Irene re¬ 
proached, “ but you took no notice. My friend 
is already a great violinist, and on her way to be 
still greater. You’ve probably seen her name in 
the concert advertisements.” 

He shook his head. 

“ I may have,” he answered. u But I am not 
musical, you know. In fact I dislike music., Con¬ 
cert announcements would not rivet my attention. 
No, the name must have been elsewhere.” 

He said to himself that it must have been in 
his own heart. 

But aloud he repeated smiling: “Patuffa — 
Patuffa.” 

So at least they knew his name and that he lived 
in Wareham, but that was about all. He never 
spoke of any relations or friends, nor referred to 
any events of his life. It was as if he had had no 
life except his present life in Rome. His mind 
was concentrated on the happenings of the hour, 


200 


PATUFFA 


and his quiet, half whimsical enjoyment of every 
circumstance was most endearing. Irene alone 
noticed that now and again, at rare intervals, it 
is true, his face clouded over, and that he glanced 
back as if expecting to see some one near him. It 
was only a momentary anxiety, but it was a real 
one. 

She spoke of it to Chummy and to Patuffa. 
Chummy laughed at her good-naturedly, and said 
it was evident that she was not losing with heavily 
increasing years, her powers of vivid imagination. 
Patuffa pronounced her to be a “ silly ass ” like 
all writers of books. Irene therefore entrusted 
her reflections to her diary; and these were some 
of her entries at the time: 

“ Mr. Peter Long goes everywhere with us, 
and I have ended by liking him very much, but 
continue to have a vague, uneasy feeling about 
him. Chummy takes the greatest pleasure in his 
company, and, of course, is attracted by his irre¬ 
sponsibility: for Chummy has adored irresponsi¬ 
ble people ever since I can remember; and we’ve 
always had a long procession of them at Head¬ 
quarters. Up to now I’ve never minded, and I 
don’t know why I should mind now, except for 
Patuffa’s sake. 

“ There is no doubt that she has fallen in love 
with him. I’ve never before seen her taken up 
so thoroughly with any man. It isn’t that she 
speaks much about him. Patuffa never says much. 
I remember at school how silent she was when she 


PATUFFA 


201 


was planning the most awful things. Her en¬ 
thusiasm for sketching has become an obses¬ 
sion, and she and Peter Long enjoy themselves to¬ 
gether hour after hour. She has most certainly 
passed on from poor old Papa Stefansky’s trag¬ 
edy. Well, of course that is just what we wanted 
her to do, and I don’t know why I am so 
captious.” 

And later: 

“ I said to Chummy last evening when we had 
returned from a long day’s outing at Tivoli and 
he had been sounding the praises of Peter Long: 
‘ Chummy dear, I do like him, and no one could 
appreciate more than I do all his pleasant and 
easy winning ways. And I am sure he has the 
heart of a true poet. But I do wish we knew a 
little more about him.’ Chummy’s answer was 
that relations and parents and great-grandparents 
and a solid mass of ancestors were burdens which 
no one ought to be expected to carry — and cer¬ 
tainly not in Rome. I could only laugh.” 

And later: 

u I sometimes wish Madame Mama was here. 
Not that she or any one could put a spoke in 
Patuffa’s wheel. Still I wish it. Patuffa might 
confide in her. She might, or might not. But I 
rather imagine she might, for those two have al¬ 
ways been so close to each other — at any rate, 
they were close before Madame Mama’s engage¬ 
ment. That engagement has made an enormous 
difference. I notice Patuffa does not write the 


202 P A T U F F A 

screeds to her mother that she used to in the old 
days.” 

It was evident that Peter Long was at his hap¬ 
piest in open places. He refused quietly, but quite 
definitely, to go to any of the Catacombs, or to 
the crypt of St. Peter’s. Nothing enticed him 
there. But he was always ready for the Palatine. 
He was content to spend hours amongst the re¬ 
mains of the Palaces, but took care to have noth¬ 
ing to do with the guide whom Chummy and Irene 
adored, and whose every word they drank in, in 
their thirst for knowledge. He scarcely ever 
went into the Museums, and Irene noticed that 
when he did accompany them,, he seemed worried 
and anxious, and moved on spasmodically if any 
one, except his friends, came near him. 

One day when they were all at the Thermae 
of Diocletian, he remained in the gardens whilst 
Chummy and Patuffa visited the Museum. 
Irene, being tired, stayed behind with him, and 
they sat together on a bench near the fountain, 
amongst the collected fragments of architecture. 
He had his sketch-book as usual in his hand, and 
began making a drawing of the gigantic bull’s 
head. Suddenly he stopped with a start, half 
rose, and looked round with the same expression 
of alarm on his face which she had remarked be¬ 
fore. only on this occasion his distress seemed far 
greater. 

“ What is it, Mr. Long? ” she asked kindly. 


P A T U F F A 


203 


The sound of her voice must have reassured 
him. He gave a sigh of relief, and the cloud 
cleared at once from his face. 

“ Very curious,” he said, returning to his sketch¬ 
ing, “ I thought some one touched me on the 
shoulder. I thought I heard some one calling my 
name. I could have sworn it.” 

But he at once recovered his serenity, and was 
his own cheerful, happy self again, whistling 
softly to himself as he drew, and then holding 
out to her his sketch-book so that she might ad¬ 
mire his work. 

“ All the same,” he said with a laugh, “ Miss 
Patuffa Rendham is beating me hollow. I pre¬ 
tend to the contrary, as you know, but the truth 
is, she improves, and I don’t. Very selfish of 
her. Why can’t she be content to excel in that 
violin playing of hers which does not concern 
me? ” 

“ It would concern you if you heard her,” Irene 
said, glad for the chance of touching on a sore 
subject. “ You haven’t heard her. Why don’t 
you ask her to play to you? ” 

“ You see, I’m not musical,” he confided. “ It 
is a ghastly fact that music bores me. I almost 
hate it. The only tune I can stand is God Save 
the Oueen , and that not too often either. But if 
you think I ought to ask her, I’ll try and bear up. 
Do you think I ought to? Will she be offended 
if I don’t?” 

“ No, I’m sure she won’t,” Irene laughed, ap- 


204 


PATUFFA 


peased by his frankness. “ Patuffa is not like 
that. She is very simple, and gives herself no 
airs about her playing. Every one says that. So 
far she is quite unspoilt.” 

“ You love your friend,” he said. 

Irene nodded. 

“ You see, we’ve been children together,” she 
explained. “ She used to protect me and fight my 
battles at school. She would now if I wanted her 
to. I should be sorry for the person who tried to 
do me an injury. She is so loyal.” 

“Ah,” he said, smiling tenderly. “Loyal — 
that’s a good word. Do please tell me some more 
about her.” 

And Irene, nothing loth, and forgetting her 
misgivings and her entries in her diary, gave him 
a glowing and an intimate account of Patuffa, and 
ended up with the story of Stefansky’s tragic 
death on the platform. 

“ So we brought her here to recover,” she 
said. 

“ And is she recovering? ” he asked anxiously. 

“ Yes,” Irene answered. “ She is not the same 
person. Rome is helping her.” 

“ Ah, not only Rome,” he said excitedly. 
“ Not only the Vatican and the Forum and the 
Appian Way and St. Peter’s and the Campagna 
— no — no, no, not only that . . .” 

At that moment Chummy and Patuffa returned, 
and this private conversation came to an abrupt 
end. 


PATUFFA 


205 


That night Irene wrote in her diary: 

“ I couldn’t help myself when he asked me 
about Patuffa. But now I wish I had not told 
him so much, for he drank in every word, and I 
know perfectly well that I have stimulated Mr. 
Peter Long to think more of her instead of hav¬ 
ing tried to snuff out his interest. Not that it 
would really have made any difference, I suppose, 
as they are in love with each other. But I ought 
to have been more reserved. There is something 
about him which disarms one. I like his direct¬ 
ness and his simplicity. I.like it, for instance, that 
he was so frank about hating music! Other men 
might pose and pretend to adore it in order to 
find favor with her. He does nothing of the kind. 
And it was really most amusing to-night when he 
said to Patuffa in his na'ive way which is so fas¬ 
cinating— and that’s the truth — ‘ I believe it is 
my duty to ask you to play on the violin to me. 
I wish I didn't dislike music, and above all the 
sound of a violin, which always sets my teeth on 
edge. But I can’t help myself, can I? Still, I do 
ask you to play.’ Patuffa laughed and answered: 
‘ It’s most awfully kind of you, Mr. Long, and I 
quite appreciate your sacrifice. But how would it 
be if we took the ordeal as done and over.’ 

“ His look of relief was something great to 
behold. Patuffa was more than delighted with 
him: far more so than if he had worshiped her 
talent and praised her in glowing terms as so 
many do. 


206 


PATUFFA 


“ Yes, she is certainly in love with him. Well, I 
admit he is a dear fellow. But he remains a mys¬ 
tery to me. That sudden alarm of his to-day, for 
instance — that puzzled me. It is curious that he 
has these attacks only in my presence. Four occa¬ 
sions I’ve noted. I believe I make him ‘ nervy ’ 
— and why I can’t think.” 


CHAPTER III 



AID Patuffa to herself: 

“ I love this man and I’m going to marry 
him sooner or later — probably sooner. 
And I don’t care what any one may say about it. 
I’ve set my heart on Peter Long. I intend to 
have him.” 

Up to now she had only had friendships or mild 
flirtations with men, and sent them flying if they 
had irritated her. Her passion for freedom was 
so great that at the first sign of being chained and 
captured, she had always taken alarm and shaken 
them off. But no wish to escape from the lure of 
Peter Long assailed her. The mystery of him, 
the romance of him, the enchantment of him, ex¬ 
cited her. It was so exactly like her to be drawn 
towards a stray unknown whom she had discov¬ 
ered in her own way, off her own bat. Probably 
if he had been introduced to her in the sanctity of 
a drawing-room he might have meant nothing to 
her. But to have excavated him in the Forum 
when she. was prowling round alone and detached 
from circumstances — to have come across some 

one equally detached and as equally ready for im- 

207 


208 


PATUFFA 


mediate comradeship as herself — well, if that 
was not fate, what was fate, pray? 

She accepted him as fate: At the moment it 
was- of no matter to her that he frankly and 
wholeheartedly disliked the very thing on which 
her life was founded — music. The truth was 
that he had taken her on the rebound, when her 
enthusiasm for her career was in abeyance. She 
•was tired out by her many years of strenuous 
apprenticeship, the excitements of her Concert, 
the fulfilment of her ambitions, the intensity of 
her aspirations, her conflicting emotions about 
Mama’s engagement, a deep and silent suffering 
over the growing separation between them, and 
finally the exhausting circumstances of Stefan- 
sky’s visit and the tragedy of his death. She was 
glad to turn aside from music and to bask in the 
sunshine of a companionship which entailed no 
demands on her art. The relief would not have 
lasted, but whilst it did last it was very real. Not 
once those days did she touch her violin. She 
wrote the briefest letters to Mama with no refer¬ 
ence to the events which were engaging all her 
principal thoughts. This was the first time that 
Mama had not been her confidante in any affaire 
de cceur. 

She let herself go entirely, and drew Peter 
Long on by falling in so readily with the intimacy 
which he appeared to expect as a matter of 
course. She could have cut the comradeship short 
if she had wanted. She could have given excuses 


PATUFFA 


209 


for not going out alone with him. But she did 
nothing of the kind. She even proposed outings 
with him, always, however, saying quite frankly 
to Chummy and Irene: 

“ Mr. Long and I are going to the Colosseum 
to-day.” Or: 

“ He and I have designs on the Villa Doria- 
Pamfili this morning.” Or: 

u We’re off to the Appian Way to sketch some 
tombs.” 

And Chummy was so immersed in all his stud¬ 
ies in language, history, archaeology, and sculp¬ 
ture, that he did not take much heed of what was 
going on outside that world of wonder, in which 
he was living a life of pure delight. Once or 
twice he asked: 

“ And where is our Patuffe to-day? ” 

“ Out with Peter Long,” Irene answered. 

“Ah! really,” he said. “It is a mercy she is 
amusing herself so well, and making such a thor¬ 
ough recovery. Now, my child, I ask you to 
take special note of the way in which that head 
is poised. And mark well the strain of the out¬ 
stretched arm. Perfect. Marvelous. For this 
statue alone it was worth coming hundreds of 
miles.” 

And as he bestowed no more attention than 
that on Patuffa’s adventure, Irene gave up re¬ 
ferring to it, ended by accepting Patuffa’s many 
absences as the natural order of things, and made 
no allusion to them even in her diary. It was not 


210 


PATUFFA 


difficult for her to arrive at this acquiescence, see¬ 
ing that ever since she had known her, Patuffa 
had invariably planned out her own life and pur¬ 
sued her own way in the teeth of all opposition. 
And she had always come out on the top. She 
would now, her stanch friend vaguely thought. 

So Irene, too, as well as her father, steeped 
herself in the history and archaeology of Rome, 
and thought and dreamed of the past. She made 
careful notes about the tombs of the Popes and 
began a series of papers on that subject, starting 
with the monument to Sixtus IV in St. Peter’s. 
At other times, with her mind’s eye, she saw 
Caesar mounting the tribune for the last time. 
She saw the triumphal processions winding along 
the Via Sacra to the Capitol, and the undying 
fire rising from the Temple of Vesta. She saw 
the thousands assembled in the Colosseum, and 
the gladiators and Christian martyrs meeting 
their fate in the vast arena. Or she leapt the cen¬ 
turies and saw Tasso wandering in the Convent 
garden of St. Onoforio, or Michael Angelo at 
■work on the ceiling of the Sixtine, or Raphael on 
his frescoes in the stanze of the Vatican. And 
Patuffa, though sharing these visions and rap¬ 
tures often enough not to cut herself off from 
intimate intercourse with Chummy and Irene, 
went her way unimpeded and free as air. 

It was on the Pincio, when the sun was setting 
in all its undreamt of magnificence behind the 
Dome of St. Peter’s, that Peter Long unfolded 


PATUFFA 


211 


his love to Patuffa. It was a simple enough con¬ 
fession, and her acceptance of it was the same. 

“ We know all we need to know of each other,” 
he said. “ We know that we love each other.” 

u Yes,” she said, her face aglow with happi¬ 
ness. “ I have shown you from the beginning I 
loved you. And you have shown me. We’ve 
wasted no time. And why should we have wasted 
it when we felt at once that we were made for 
each other? ” 

“ Made for each other,” he repeated joyously. 
“ The wonder of it, the glory of it, the thrill of 
it, my Patuffa.” 

With his arm close round her, and her arm 
close round him, they leaned over the parapet, 
watched the splendor of the sky with all its chang¬ 
ing tones and hues, and whispered to each other 
that Nature could show them no scene more beau¬ 
tiful than the vision conjured up by the magician 
Love. 


II 

The next day Patuffa told Chummy. She was 
radiantly happy, but armed with a defiance ready 
for any opposition. She began: 

“ Chummy, I suppose I ought to tell you that 
Peter Long and I love each other, and that we 
shall be married as soon as possible. At first I 
thought I would keep this secret. But I changed 
my mind.” 


212 


PATUFFA 


He put down Lanciani’s Pagan and Christian 
Rome, and looked up at her. 

“ Well, I’m glad you changed your mind, little 
Patuffe,” he said quietly. 

“ Yes, so am I,” she answered simply. 

He fiddled with the book uneasily, and seemed 
troubled. 

“ But, my child, you know' nothing of him,” he 
objected very kindly. 

“ Well, there’s nothing in that,” she said 
bruskly, beginning her defiance at once. “ How 
often have you not said that no one knows any¬ 
thing of any one? ” 

“ Yes, that’s quite true,” Chummy answered. 
“ I stand by my own words, but . . .” 

“ You like him,” she interrupted. “ You’ve 
showm you like him. And you’ve told me so over 
and over again.” 

“ Of course I like him,” Chummy owned. “ As 
a stray companion, as an, Unknown One, as an 
enthusiast over all the things we love — except 
music — I think he is quite delightful. I have 
nothing against him. But up to now I’ve never 
thought of him as a possible adopted son-in-law. 
For all we know he may be the very person of all 
others to occupy that position — I don’t say he 
isn’t. But he is an entire stranger to us. We 
know no more of him than if we had found him 
on the desert of Arizona, collecting cacti.” 

“ I don’t see that it makes any difference,” she 
said with growing impatience. 


PATUFFA 


213 


“ In one sense it doesn’t,” he answered, with 
a half smile. “ There is more chance in these 
love concerns than we like to own up to. But in 
another sense it is as well to have some idea, 
however vague, of the circumstances to which one 
commits oneself. Even I think that, Patuffa, and 
you couldn’t accuse me of being a heavy father 
— could you now? It looks as if I haven’t been 
heavy enough. I ought to have foreseen some¬ 
thing of this sort; but the truth is, I’ve been en¬ 
tirely taken up with statues and excavations, and 
also I’ve had no practise in the heavy father 
attitude. I blame myself for not keeping a bet¬ 
ter look out.” 

“ You needn’t,” she said. “ You wouldn’t 
have influenced me in the least. I love him pas¬ 
sionately. I loved him from the moment I saw 
him. I don’t care who he is, and what his cir¬ 
cumstances are. But I can tell you something 
about him. He has a sister and a house in 
Dorsetshire, but he lives in Colorado. He went 
there for his health years ago and prefers to have 
his home there. He has plenty of money and he 
runs over to Europe when he wants to. Doesn’t 
that sound all right?” 

“And w T here does your music come in?” 
Chummy asked. 

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. 

“ It is nothing to me as compared with Peter,” 
she said. “ Just nothing. He is everything. 
Nothing else counts.” 


214 


PATUFFA 


“ You have a successful career in your hands,” 
Chummy said, “ and you are prepared to throw 
it away like so much rubbish for the sake of a 
strange man whom you’ve known for five or six 
weeks, and who owns quite frankly that he hates 
music r 

“ Yes,” she replied fiercely. 

“ Well, my dear child, I think you are a fool 
— a damned little fool,” he said. “ I don’t pre¬ 
tend that I can influence you, for I don’t consider 
I’ve ever been able to influence any one. And 
probably you’ll be telling me that it is none of my 
business.” 

“ Yes, I should,” she retorted. 

“ All right, we’ve got over that part,” he said 
quite quietly. “ But there remains Madame 
Mama. You at least owe it to her to open your 
heart to her and thresh out the whole subject 
with her. She has always . . .” 

“ Mama is out of it,” Patuffa interrupted. 
“ You know perfectly well, Chummy, that Mama 
is going her own way and leaving me in the lurch. 
Mama won’t care now whom and w T hat I marry.” 

“ Is every one then out of it? ” he asked. 

“ Yes,” she said, stamping her foot. “ Every 
one. It is my concern and mine only.” 

He did not take the slightest notice of her 
temper. 

“ Patuffe,” he urged, “ whatever you do to any 
one else, you must not leave Madame Mama out 
in the cold. And it isn’t like you to be unfair to 


PATUFFA 


215 


her. Your welfare could never be a matter of 
indifference to her, and you know it. Remember, 
she confided her own love affair to you, and the 
least you can do is to confide yours to her. That 
is all I have to say to you about it, and apparently 
the only thing that I have the right to say. I 
repeat it, I have nothing against Peter Long. I 
like him and I like his enthusiasm and his light¬ 
hearted happiness. I like his detachment, his 
irresponsibility. You know I am myself a bit 
irresponsible, and so I well understand that quality 
in him. But I’m thankful it isn’t Irene who has 
fallen in love with him. After all, you don’t be¬ 
long to me, little Patuffe, except inasmuch as you 
wish to belong to me. I might make all the in¬ 
quiries I chose about Peter Long, and yet I should 
have no authority to press on you the result of 
those inquiries as I should have in the case of 
Irene. The only thing I really have the right to 
do, is to write to Madame Mama and tell her 
the circumstances which are beyond my control. 
But I would much rather you did it—for her 
sake and mine — and yours. Couldn’t you see 
your way? ” 

She stood white, tense, stubborn, defiant and 
silent. 

u Couldn’t you? ” he repeated, looking up with 
his kind smile which had so much charm in it, and 
was on most occasions an unfailing appeal of 
comradeship. 

“ No,” she answered. “ I go my own way. 


216 


PATUFFA 


I’ve always gone my own way. I know what I 
w r ant, and I intend to have it. If I make a mis¬ 
take, it is my own mistake — no one else’s.” 

She was watching him keenly, and she must 
have seen his expression change from kindness 
and patience to the impassivity of indifference. 

“ Well, well,” he said, turning away with a half 
sigh, “ at least we’ve had no scene. I’m getting 
too old for scenes. I need peace.” 

He stretched out his hand for Lanciani, and 
began reading it, as if she had left the room and 
he were alone. His behavior gave the impression 
that, after all, she did not count; and no words 
of rebuke or criticism or angry remonstrance 
could have stung her more. Almost she sprang 
forward to ask forgiveness, as she had so often 
asked it from him when as a child she had been im¬ 
possible and naughty. But she did not yield now 
to the impulse, and, instead, walked slowly out 
of the room and shut the door with quiet deliber¬ 
ation. 

When she had gone he put down his book, for 
his mind was no longer with Pagan and Christian 
Rome . He was hurt by Patuffa’s attitude towards 
him personally, but still more so by her willing¬ 
ness to repudiate her career. He knew, of course, 
that this phase would pass, and that in the end 
it would be as impossible for her to give up her 
music, as it would be for the lark to lose its joy 
and birthright of song. But he was bitterly dis¬ 
appointed that she could even imagine herself 


PATUFFA 


217 


ready to sacrifice the very foundations of her 
existence at the call of passion. He had believed 
her more firmly planted in the soil to which he 
himself had gladly contributed enrichment for 
growth and attainment. 

It was exactly like Chummy to feel far more 
concerned about her indifference to her career 
than by the fact that Peter Long was a stranger 
and an unknown quantity. If Peter Long had 
been a musician, or an enthusiast for music, 
capable of understanding and appreciating Pa- 
tuffa’s talent, Chummy would have been the first 
to think that probably nothing else mattered and 
that this one essential being secured, love and 
passion could take its own risks, and work out 
its salvation or damnation on its own lines and 
in its own way. 

He did not blame Patuffa. He blamed him¬ 
self. He had neglected the responsibilities he 
had taken on himself and landed them all in this 
mess. 

“ So like me,” he thought. “ I’m such a fool, 
and haven’t had my eyes open. Irene, the only 
sensible one amongst us, warned me what was 
going on, and I took no notice. She warned me, 
too, that there is something strange and unusual 
about the man, and I’ve snuffed her out. It hasn’t 
seemed to matter, if there were. He was only a 
passer-by. But now, by Jove, it does matter. 
One must focus on him, and plan out what’s to be 
done.” 


218 


PATUFFA 


Poor Chummy was trying to think what course 
to take which would be helpful and not futile, 
having regard to Patuffa’s wilful and determined 
nature, when Peter Long arrived. He was nervy 
and excited, but brought with him, as usual, an 
atmosphere of charm which was irresistible. The 
almost childlike confidence with which he slipped 
into a chair near Chummy, as if he were sure 
of being welcomed, was disarming in itself. 
Chummy smiled in spite of himself. 

“ I love Patuffa,” Peter Long said without any 
preliminaries. “ She loves me. We know we 
are made for each other. We found that out at 
once, Mr. Tyrell, and we are going to marry as 
soon as possible. Isn’t it splendid? I wish you 
could have seen the sunset which was the witness 
of our pact. It all seemed to fit in — glory, splen¬ 
dor, fire, tenderness, rest, peace, union, ecstasy, 
love. I have come to tell you of my happiness. 
Never could I have believed there was such hap¬ 
piness in life.” 

His rapture took all the wind out of Chummy’s 
sails. He could only stare at Peter Long in a 
blank silence. This taking everything for granted 
truly fascinated him, intrigued him, deprived him 
of any latent resources to meet the situation. 

“ When she came into the Vestals’ courtyard I 
knew she was mine,” Peter Long continued, laugh¬ 
ing joyously. “ I felt sure of it, Mr. Tyrell. 
And you see I was right. She felt the same. 
We’d found each other in an instant — glorious, 


PATUFFA 


219 


wasn’t it? No boring, ridiculous, wasteful be¬ 
ginnings, but immediate recognition of destiny. 
And in such surroundings, too ! With the glamour 
and glory of the past closing round us, and that 
wonderful sunshine lighting up the world of our 
future. I have no words with which to describe 
to you my joy, my exultation. But you will under¬ 
stand and sympathize, I am sure. We understand 
each other, you and I.” 

With great effort Chummy found utterance. 

u But hasn’t it struck you, Long,” he asked as 
impressively as he could, “ that we don’t know 
who you are ? ” 

“ Don’t know who I am?” Peter Long re¬ 
peated with sudden impatience. “ Well, what 
has that got to do with it, pray? ” 

“ We don’t know who you are,” Chummy 
went on bravely. “ You don’t know who we are. 
You know nothing of our circumstances. We 
know nothing of yours. We are just casual 
acquaintances thrown together haphazard. We’ve 
got at least to pause — you, as well as we.” 

“Pause?” shouted Peter Long, springing up 
excitedly. “What do we want to pause for? 
Money? I’ve plenty of money. I’ve always had 
plenty of money and always shall have. So that’s 
settled.” 

He waved his arms indignantly in the air as if 
dismissing this most ignoble subject. The sunny 
expression on his face had gone. He looked 
angry, fierce, almost menacing. It was certain 


220 


PATUFFA 


that he could brook no opposition. But Chummy, 
having once started, had gained confidence in 
himself. 

“ There are other considerations besides 
money,” he said quietly— “ where a man belongs 
— what his people are — what he does — what 
his aims are — what his circumstances are — 
however humble, however grand. I’m not lay¬ 
ing any stress on grandeur or prosperity. That’s 
not my way of looking at life. But hang it all, 
one has got to know something to guide one. 
What do you do, for instance?” 

“ Do? ” shouted Peter Long, with a laugh that 
sounded none too pleasant. “ What do you do? ” 

“ I do nothing, now,” Chummy replied. “ But 
then, I am an old man. You are a young man. 
A young man has a career, generally. Even if 
he is rich and has plenty of money as you say you 
have, he has a career if he’s worth his mettle. 
Patuffa has her career — a great one, too. You 
don’t know about her career. You don’t realize 
that she is a great artist. She . . .” 

“ That’s nothing to me,” Peter Long inter¬ 
rupted impatiently. “ Her career is nothing to 
me.” 

“ But it is to us,” Chummy said tensely. “ If 
she’s forgetting it, we can’t—I can’t. The man 
that she marries, whether he be rich or poor, 
ought to be some one that will cherish her career 
and foster her ambitions. Even if we knew every¬ 
thing about you, I ong — your whole history from 



P A T U F F A 


221 


the moment you were born until now, even then, 
this would be my last word. For Patuffa, a rising 
professional violinist, to think of marrying a man 
who by his own confession hates music, seems to 
me the height of madness — madness.” 

The word was scarcely out of his mouth when 
he saw what an alarming effect it had produced 
on Peter Long. The man started back as if he 
had been struck. He was transformed from a 
charmer into a wild animal. In a flash all was 
revealed to Chummy, and he jumped up from his 
chair to meet the impending danger which he read 
in Peter Long’s eyes. 

“Madness — madness,” Peter Long shouted. 
“ Let no one dare to speak that lying word to me. 
I’ll not hear it.” 

And he was on the point of rushing on the old 
man in an ungovernable rage, waving his arms 
wildly in the air, when suddenly the door opened 
and Patuffa stepped into the room. She paused 
for less than half a second, dumbfounded at what 
she saw, and then she sprang between them, fear¬ 
less and alert. 

“ Peter, what is this? ” her voice rang out. 
“What is this?” 

He brought himself up suddenly and stood 
shaking all over with a supreme effort of self 
control at the sight of her presence and the sound 
of her voice. 

“ I am defending our love,” he cried. “ This 
miserable fool opposes it — he opposes it — he is 


222 


PATUFFA 


against it — he is against me — he has been say¬ 
ing — he says . . 

“ Whatever he says, no one shall touch a hair 
of his head,” she broke in, fiercely, all her pro¬ 
tective instinct aroused. “ Do you hear, Peter? 
What are you thinking of? Miserable fool in¬ 
deed! How dare you say that? How dare you? 
He is my friend, my best friend in the world. And 
no one shall touch a hair of his head.” 

“ You against me too, Patuffa,” he cried with 
a heart-rending anguish, “ all the world against 
me — you against me — no, no, not that — not 
that.” 

A terrible convulsive movement passed over 
Peter Long’s face, and he fell down in a fit. 


CHAPTER IV 


A 


I 

9 

S O ended Patuffa’s Roman love affair. Peter 
Long disappeared from her life as suddenly 
as he had come into it. He was removed 
from the hotel and held in safe keeping until a 
few days later he was claimed by his medical at¬ 
tendant from whom he had escaped so far away 
as Perugia. He had covered up his tracks very 
cunningly and had enjoyed nearly two months’ 
entire freedom. No wonder he had been happy 
and joyous in spite of his passing attacks of alarm 
which were now explained. Explained also was 
his very definite dislike of enclosed spaces. His 
pitiful record had been four years in a private 
asylum, partial recovery, this experiment in par¬ 
tial freedom — and his collapse. 

Patuffa met the tragic happening in truly gal¬ 
lant fashion. It is possible that with her stub¬ 
born nature she might have refused to believe 
in Peter Long’s mental affliction if she had not 
seen for herself. But she was forced to accept 
the cruel fact that the man who had been wooing 
her and in whose presence she had felt for the 

first time in her life the rapture of love, was 

223 


224 


PATUFFA 


an escaped madman and a dangerous one; and 
the shock of realization might well have shat¬ 
tered her if she had allowed herself to give way. 
Instead she bore herself with a proud dignity, 
and put aside her own sufferings and emotions 
to minister to Chummy, for whom in his old age 
the alarming experience had been too much. She 
took her turn in nursing him when Irene slept, 
and poured out her love and tenderness on them 
both. If she it was who had brought the trouble 
on them, at least it was she also who strove by 
all means in her power to bring the healing. 

Chummy scarcely spoke the first day or two, 
but one morning he turned to her and said: 

“ We shall find our way, you and I, Patuffe. 
You because you are young, and I because I am 
tough.” 

“ Yes, dear,” she said, rubbing her face against 
his hand. 

“ Would you like to leave Rome, my child? ” 
he asked. “ We came here to recover from one 
thing, and have got something else. Bad luck 
— bad luck. Would you like to move on? Can 
you stand it? ” 

“ Of course I can stand it,” she answered 
firmly. “ I mean to stay.” 

“ Good girl to face the music,” he nodded, 
“ good, brave girl.” 

“ When you are better, we must go and camp 
in the Vatican galleries, day and night,” she said, 
44 night and day.” 


PATUFFA 


225 


He smiled. 

“ Ah,” he said, “ you’re going to humor me, 
are you? That is good news. I like to be 
humored. And how about the casts of Trajan’s 
Column which you and Irene always want to tear 
me from so mercilessly? ” 

“ Day and night,” she repeated with a soft 
little laugh. “ You shall have all the indulgence 
you want.” 

Later she said: 

“ Chummy, I was a beast to you. When I 
came back, it was to tell you that I was bitterly 
sorry and to beg you to forgive me.” 

“ And instead you came to protect my foolish 
old life,” he said. “ That is all you have to re¬ 
member. Nothing but that.” 

He recovered, more or less, after a few days, 
and it was a glad morning for them when he 
asked for his Dante, and for Pagan and Chris¬ 
tian Rome. 

Irene wrote in her diary: 

“ I think he will now soon be himself again. 
His heart is fairly normal, he sleeps better, and 
his appetite improves. The effects of the shock 
are certainly passing off. I have been very 
anxious, and very anxious also has been poor little 
Patuffe, who confessed to me the whole story of 
her interview with Chummy when she was rough 
and unkind to him and ungrateful. She blames 
herself bitterly for all that has happened, and of 


226 


PATUFFA 


course she is to blame. But no one could be 
more penitent, nor in such a wonderful way. I 
never saw her so unselfish nor more tender. So 
controlled in her grief she has been, so dignified 
in her bitter disappointment. She does not seem 
to have thought of herself at all, but only of 
Chummy and me — how best to help me — how 
best to restore him. 

“ But I shall never forget the look on her face 
when she was at last able to speak of Peter Long 
to me. I’ve never before seen her shed a tear 
except in rage, but she wept over the thought of her 
beloved Peter deprived of his freedom, guarded, 
guarded — that was the word she harped on — 
shut away from free intercourse with Nature and 
all the outside things he loved. She said he had 
touched some chord in her heart which would 
never cease to vibrate, and that nothing that 
might happen to her could efface the remembrance 
of the ecstasy she had felt in loving him and 
being loved by him. 

“ ‘ He lies buried in my heart,’ she said. 

“ Then she drew herself up to her full little 
height and faced the world unflinchingly. She has 
shied at no place where she has been with him. 
And since Chummy has risen from his bed and 
more or less resumed his life, I am sure that 
her one aim has been not to let either of us feel 
that she cared less for the things we were seeing 
and doing. How she has managed it, I don’t 
know. I couldn’t have. But there it is. I do 


P A T U F F A 227 

admire her, and if it were possible, we are closer 
than before. 

“ And I admire myself, too, but in another 
way! In this way. I am much pleased, very 
much pleased, with myself over my uneasiness 
about Peter Long. At first I thought his irre¬ 
sponsibility quite entrancing, as the others did. 
Then I began to feel that there was something 
disturbing in it, much as I enjoyed it. Then I no¬ 
ticed his sudden attacks of swiftly passing fear. 
Then I began gropingly to put things together 
in my mind: but the ground was cut from under 
my clever construction because all at once he be¬ 
came so normal, that I was obliged to conclude 
that I had been mistaken. I have the idea that 
he realized I was puzzled by his mentality, and 
that he made great efforts of self-control to put 
me off the scent of certainty, because he knew 
that I was the only one who had been witness 
of his mysterious alarms. 

“ The whole matter is clear now. He was 
expecting, poor fellow, to be tracked down and 
deprived of his freedom at any moment; and 
only his ecstatic delight in his liberty and his 
infatuation for Patuffa prevented him from focus¬ 
ing the whole time on the probabilities of his re¬ 
capture. It is a distinct triumph to me that I 
showed some insight into character. At Head¬ 
quarters we have all kinds of out-of-the-way peo¬ 
ple. I might very easily have thought that Peter 
Long was only another example, with perhaps a 


228 


PATUFFA 


slight differentiation — but that slight differentia¬ 
tion — how great! I was the only one who rec¬ 
ognized that great, thin line. 

“ But that is my secret, and my intellectual 
psychological triumph; and I record it for my 
own private satisfaction, as of course in the cir¬ 
cumstances I can’t rub it in, as I otherwise should 
be delighted to do. I can now go on with my 
Popes’ Tombs. I left off with the two Borgias, 
Calixtus III and Alexander VI buried in one 
coffin in S. Maria di Monserrato.” 


II 

It was at the Villa D’Este that Patuffa first 
spoke unreservedly to Chummy about Peter Long. 
Irene had sent them out to Tivoli alone partly 
because she wanted an uninterrupted day for 
herself to visit the monument of Julius II in S. 
Pietro-in-Vinculis and that of Paul IV in Santa 
Maria sopra Minerva, but chiefly because she 
thought it would do them both good to have a 
long and an intimate talk together in different 
surroundings. For except on that one occasion 
to herself, Patuffa had not spoken of Peter Long, 
nor had she written a line to Mama about him. 
Chummy and Irene had written. Either Patuffa 
thought her mother was unreachable, or else some 
kind of resentful pride made her feel that she 
did not want to be reached by Mama’s divided 


PATUFFA 


229 


heart. Irene was determined that this unnatural 
silence should be broken. The strained look on 
Patuffa’s face troubled her. Something must be 
done to banish that expression of dumb suffering. 

So she dispatched them in her wisdom, and 
things turned out as she had hoped. The Villa 
D’Este, beloved of Liszt, worked its appointed 
miracle. 

They had ruled out Hadrian’s Villa as being 
too tiring for the occasion, had visited the Temple 
of the Sibyl and the Falls and then made for 
the Villa D’Este, that enchanted hillside garden 
of delicate and almost unearthly beauty with its 
cypresses and laurels and scarlet oleanders, its 
carpets of flowers, and orange groves, and foun¬ 
tains, and the glorious views from its terrace. 

The soft caressing air fanned them; the resplen¬ 
dent sky and golden sunshine entranced them; 
and the blue mountains filled their hearts with a 
delight unspeakable. They could not have come 
to a lovelier spot for the healing of the wounds 
of the spirit. 

It was Patuffa who began. Again she asked 
forgiveness for her cruel and rough behavior and 
her angry and ungrateful words when she had re¬ 
pulsed his concern and repudiated his right to 
advise and guide her. She asked forgiveness for 
the danger to which she had exposed him, a danger 
at the thought of which she shuddered day and 
night. 

But he brushed all that aside as only Chummy 


230 


PATUFFA 


could. Anger and resentment had never found 
congenial soil in Chummy’s heart. They died be¬ 
fore they were born. 

“ If you were defiant, my child,” he said, “ I 
had been negligent. More blame attaches to me 
than to you. For you were in love and outside 
the range of reasonableness, and I was only im¬ 
mersed in my studies. There is no rift in the 
lute, little Patuffa. There could be none. As well 
suppose one in the case of Irene. Impossible. 
And you saved my life on that dreadful morning. 
Yes, you saved it. But for your timely arrival 
— well — well, we must leave that alone. And 
do you know, I crave to tell you that you have 
borne yourself most gallantly in these trying days. 
Do you think I am such an old fool that I don’t 
realize what an effort of self-control you have 
made? But now, listen, Patuffa, if you want to 
help me still more — and I am sure you do — 
you will unburden your heart to me. Has the 
time come when you could? ” 

Yes, she could now, she thought. And she 
poured out her feelings unreservedly. He tuned 
himself to every detail of the story; her love for 
Peter Long which had stirred her as she had 
never been stirred by any man — passionate love 
which counted no costs and cared not where it 
led: a furious, consuming rebellion against the 
decree of fate: despair that he had been snatched 
from her not even by death, but by the cruel cir¬ 
cumstances of his mental disability: her bitter, 


PATUFFA 


231 


bitter grief over her utter helplessness to reach 
him, protect him and restore him: her anguish 
over his imprisoned life. She knew it had to be 
so — there was nothing else but that for him. She 
knew that well. But that did not make the anguish 
less. 

Chummy shared the whole of her soul’s tragedy 
with her. He did not tell her that her love for 
this poor afflicted fellow was only a passing mad¬ 
ness itself, destined mercifully to perish. He did 
not say that in a few weeks she would look back 
and be thankful for her great deliverance. In¬ 
stead, with a wisdom born of a true understanding, 
he showed only tender respect for her present 
state, and thus did her a far greater service than 
by trying to minimize, however kindly, the force 
of the blow which she had sustained. 

u You will weave your love for him into your 
spirit, and thence into your heart, and thus he 
will become part of you for ever,” he comforted 
her. 

He ended with: 

“ There remains your career, Patuffe. Nothing 
can take that from you — except yourself. There 
remains the burning vision which Stefansky saw 
again before he died — through you. You have 
all your young life to see it in. You have a 
great mission, as I look at things, and a great 
chance. Suppose there came a devastating world 
war, such as some predict. I am not a politician 
and I know nothing of such matters. But suppose 


232 


PATUFFA 


v 


this prophecy came true and Europe was stricken, 
and devastated spiritually, and material issues 
crushed out spiritual values — if only for the 
time. Think what it would mean to the world 
if fountains of graciousness remained from the 
past, from which those athirst could drink from 
living waters. To me, Arts and Letters are such 
fountains, giving and renewing life. It is your 
glorious privilege to contribute to those living 
waters. For it is not only the creators who 
count; the interpreters count. Their touch is the 
magic which gives life and freedom to the works 
of genius. All count who have plied their Art 
divinely and left a fine record behind. So, Pa- 
tuffe, remember that you have a trust which you 
must discharge faithfully, no matter what may 
happen to you in your personal circumstances. 
When I hear once more the sound of your violin, 
then, and then only shall I take true comfort. I 
have listened for it day after day.” 

“ I haven’t cared to touch it,” she said in a low 
voice. “ I’ve seemed to be miles, centuries sepa¬ 
rated from it.” 

“ Yes, I know,” he said, and left it at that, 
content to have sown the seed which might spring 
later into flower. 

And then, perhaps because his mind was full of 
memories of Liszt, the great path-breaker, as he 
called him, whom he had ever loved, he began 
speaking of the first time when he had heard 
him, and how he had been stirred, bewitched by 


PATUFFA 


233 


his impassioned personality. He quoted Heine’s 
words: “He storms away right madly oyer the 
ivory keys, and then there rings out a wilderness 
of heaven-height thought, amid which here and 
there the sweetest flowers diffuse their fragrance, 
so that one is at once troubled and beatified, but 
troubled most.” 

He spoke of his amazing life, his great-hearted¬ 
ness, his generosity, his unselfishness, the wealth 
of his virtuosity, the wealth of his creative genius 
— that fount of richness from which Wagner and 
others drew with unsparing hands. 

“ He was a king amongst men,” Chummy said, 
“ and a king among musicians. Some one said of 
his playing: ‘The piano disappears — the music 
is revealed.’ That was indeed true. If you had 
seen the smile of inspiration on his face, Patuffe, 
you would have remembered it all your life. I 
seem to see that radiance now, when we are wan¬ 
dering amongst the scenes he loved so well.” 

And thus he gently led her thoughts back to 
music and musicians, and brought her home with 
a changed expression on her troubled countenance. 

Irene was waiting for them in the hall, eager 
to pounce on them and tell them the exciting 
news that Madame Janeiro, the famous pianist, 
had arrived at the hotel, with her maid and her 
dog Pom-pom, and crowds of luggage and a grand 
piano. 

“ A miracle, isn’t it, Chummy? ” she said aside, 
with the flush of eagerness on her face. “ Patuffa 



234 


PATUFFA 


will hear her, be thrilled by her and will rush 
back to her music. Mark my words well — for 
I’m very clever! ” 


III 

“ Janeiro here,” Patuffa kept on murmuring 
to herself when she was alone in her room. 

An eagerness lit up her countenance. A fire 
leapt into her eyes. The chill at her heart passed 
into sudden warmth. Janeiro here . . . 

Janeiro, whom she had ever longed to meet and 
whom she had heard and passionately admired 
in Leipzig and Berlin and Moscow. And now 
she was here — in this very hotel. Ft was in¬ 
credible. 

She took out her Stradivari for the first time 
for many weeks, stared at it awhile, overhauled 
it, tuned it, played a few chords, laid it aside. 
The sound of music from some remote corner 
reached her ear. Janeiro playing? She must go 
and explore. 

She dashed out, learned where the pianist’s 
quarters were situated in the left wing of the 
hotel and made her way there, drawn to the spot 
as inevitably as steel to the magnet. Yes, Janeiro 
was playing, pouring out glorious strains of mu¬ 
sic which held Patuffa in thraldom as she sat 
huddled up on the stairs hard by. She listened 
with her whole being. She was thrilled to her 
depths, by the music and the nobility of its inter- 


PATUFFA 


235 


pretation. Bach, Brahms, Chopin. Janeiro was 
noted for her rendering of Chopin. For years 
she had held the palm until Pachmann came on 
the scene, and even now, no one disputed the per¬ 
fection of her art, nor the inspiration with which 
she conveyed the Master’s message. 

In a rush of emotion, all Patuffa’s passionate 
love for her Art returned. She was roused from 
her apathy, she was re-created, she was stimulated. 
If those who loved her could have seen her at this 
moment, they would have rejoiced at the magic 
transfiguration. When the last sounds of Chopin’s 
Ballade in F Minor had died away, she fled to 
her room. She locked herself in, caught up Ste- 
fansky’s Stradivari and awakened it from its 
long silence. How 7 long she played, she never 
knew. If any one came to the door, she never 
knew 7 . The outside world had died to Patuffa, 
and she was once more in the precincts to which 
she belonged. 

Irene passing by, heard her, and brought 
Chummy to listen. He stood a few minutes, 
touched and comforted. And then a great idea 
was born in his brain. Fie sent up a note to 
Madame Janeiro. 

He was not in the least surprised that she im¬ 
mediately received him. His experience of mu¬ 
sicians had been so long and so intimate that he 
knew well he could reckon on their impulsive 
kindness and readiness of response to any appeal 
for help, material or spiritual. And it was 


236 


P A T U F F A 


spiritual help he needed. He had said that in 
his letter. He told her that he knew several of 
her close friends intimately, and amongst them 
Stefansky. He did not say what he might well 
have said, that his home had always been open 
to musicians whom he had loved and served un¬ 
failingly. But Madame Janeiro knew that. She 
had heard of him often from Stefansky and others 
of the musical profession to whom he had been 
a true Maecenas. Often when they had spoken 
of him and praised both him and Headquarters, 
she had said: 

“ One day I too shall appear at Headquarters 
and demand that he should do something for poor 

J * 

aneiro. 

“ Well, you won’t ask in vain,” they had all 
said. 

Their words flocked back to her memory as 
she stood waiting to receive Chummy, with his 
letter in her hand, and a smile of welcome on her 
face. She was a beautiful woman, and had a 
noble presence, ample, yet not unduly so, and with 
an expression of the utmost kindness in her eyes 
and around her entrancing mouth. She gave the 
immediate impression of being fine and generous- 
hearted, and on large lines; and indeed this was 
the character she bore wherever she went. 

“ Mr. Tyrell,” she began, “ I know you bet¬ 
ter than you think. Stefansky used to make me 
madly jealous over the kindness you showered on 
him. And I said to myself that if that long- 


PATUFFA 


237 


suffering man can put up with Stefansky and all 
his vagaries, then he will most certainly be able 
to put up with Janeiro, and when I come to Lon¬ 
don, I shall descend on him with a tale of agoniz¬ 
ing woe and have it all put right by . . 

She tapped her forehead with two or three of 
her lovely fingers. 

“Was the name Chummy? ” she asked. 

“It was—and is,” he laughed softly, im¬ 
mensely gratified by her remembrance. 

That was the only preliminary, and it scarcely 
lasted two minutes. In a few w r ords Chummy 
told her about Patuffa. He spoke of her career, 
her recent successes, her unselfish devotion to Ste¬ 
fansky, her grieving over his death for which 
she had in a measure felt herself responsible, 
and now, when she was beginning to recover her¬ 
self, this pitiful tragedy of Peter Long which 
she had met so bravely, but which had numbed 
her nature and stilled her enthusiasms and ambi¬ 
tions. 

“ And then as if by a miracle, you came, Ma¬ 
dame Janeiro,” he ended. “ Your very name 
must have stimulated her, as it has stimulated us 
all. I think she must have surely been listening 
to you in secret. But all I know is, that after 
weeks of silence her violin, the Stradivari that 
Stefansky bequeathed her, has found its voice 
once more. She is playing now. When I heard 
her, I had the instant thought that I must seek 
your aid. You could help more than any one 


238 


PATUFFA 


— you, a great comrade, far removed from her, 
it is true, yet a comrade in the same cause. If 
you could see your way to . . 

But there was no need for Chummy to round 
off his sentence. Madame Janeiro rose impul¬ 
sively, swift as lightning gathered together some 
of the loveliest roses from her bower of flowers, 
wound them into a posy, whipped a white ribbon 
round it and ran to the door. 

“ Take me to that child’s room and leave me, 
I will do the rest,” she cried. 

He left her outside Patuffa’s room and stole 
away, half tremulous with excitement, for Patuffa 
was now playing Bach’s Chaconne — and he was 
a witness of the pianist’s start of joyous surprise 
as the sound of a masterly rendering met her 
critical ears. Janeiro had risen to the situation 
out of pure kindness of heart, and was quite un¬ 
prepared for what she heard. She listened and 
lingered on, listening. Now she smiled and mur¬ 
mured, “ Bravo.” Now her face was tense with 
expectancy, and now relaxed in peaceful pleasure. 
Now she was stirred with excitement and enthu¬ 
siasm. Now she was closing her eyes and nodding 
her head in tender approval. She leaned against 
the wall, embracing the bouquet, entirely uncon¬ 
scious of one or two of the guests who looked at 
her with wondering curiosity as they passed to 
their own rooms. 

“ My child,” she thought, “ you will heal your¬ 
self with your own gifts, but if I can hasten the 



P A T U F F A 


239 


healing even by so little as an hour or two, I shall 
be glad and proud.” 

The violin ceased. All was still within. Ma¬ 
dame Janeiro knocked softly. There was no an¬ 
swer. She paused a moment, and knocked again. 
The key was turned, the door was opened and 
Patuffa saw a splendid woman standing before 
her with her arms full of roses and the light of 
enthusiasm and appreciation in her eyes. 

She started back in surprise. She could scarcely 
believe her senses. 

“ Madame Janeiro! ” she cried. “ I know it 
is you though I’ve never seen you face to face. 
But I’ve heard you and loved you and adored you 
as every one does—and do you know I’ve been 
prowling around your door listening to you in 
secret ? I couldn’t help myself when distant strains 
of music reached me. I had to fly to you. Oh, 
Madame Janeiro — how wonderful you are — 
what a magician — what a magician! ” 

“ And you see, my child, I also have been listen¬ 
ing in secret,” Janeiro said, smiling at her. “ And 
I have been saying to myself that the person inside 
this room is a true musician. Here are flowers 
for my fellow-artist, and I give you all the ap¬ 
plause of a big, big audience in the largest Con¬ 
cert Hall in the world. And an embrace — 
yes? 

“ But now,” she laughed tenderly, “ we must 
admire each other’s cleverness at closer quarters, 
in the same room, inside the door instead of out- 


240 


P A T U F F A 


side — and at once — not a moment to lose. We 
will play to each other and we will play together 
— what think you of that program? Are you 
too tired? No, of course, you are not too tired. 
That’s right, pick up all your music. Bring it 
all, and I have a trunkful. We will play the 
Kreutzer Sonata and the Brahms and the D Minor 
Schumann and all the music that ever was writ¬ 
ten. We will play until we are dead, and then 
we will have a little lovely supper together — 
you and I alone — two artists alone, rejoicing in 
each other. Come, my little new friend.” 

Patuffa, in an ecstasy of joy, pounced on her 
music, snatched up her St,rad and dashed off 
light-heartedly with Janeiro. They played late 
into the night. They played away all her indif¬ 
ference, all her apathy. She rose the next morn¬ 
ing a different human being. 

When Chummy thanked Janeiro, she would 
hear nothing about gratitude. If any one had to 
be grateful it was she. What had she done? 
Nothing so much. She had happened to arrive 
at the right moment, and had been privileged to 
step into the breach. No one could ask anything 
better of life. 

“ I stepped in,” she said, “ and found myself 
face to face with a true musician — an artist of 
the finest type — gifted and sincere and inspired, 
and caring for other beautiful things outside mu¬ 
sic— as I do. Patuffa will go far. She has that 
real living quality of interpretation which cannot 


PATUFF1 


241 


be defined or analyzed. I am delighted with her. 
I take her off to Milan with me for my concert 
there. What think you? Then I restore her to 
you, Mr. Chummy, with no trace of that sad 
tragedy in her young heart, except the added depth 
and height which are born of suffering.” 


IV 

From Irene’s diary: 

“ One could not conceive any one more dar¬ 
ling and attractive than Madame Janeiro. She 
has a simple, gracious and loving character, like 
so many persons w 7 ho have large natural gifts. 
We have had halcyon days with her. Her com¬ 
ing here was a miracle — no other word. She 
lifted Patuffa off her feet at once, and lifted her 
away, too. Took her off to Milan. Chummy 
and I are left as derelicts, but I rather think this 
is the best thing that could have happened to us, 
as we shall now have some chance of recovering 
our senses. Poor dear Peter Long was bewilder¬ 
ing, but Janeiro was equally bewildering in an¬ 
other way. She took one’s breath away by her 
music, and her impulsive temperament, her mag¬ 
netic force and her amazing cleverness. She 
caught us all up in a whirlwind; and I must say 
I’ve never seen Chummy so epris with any one. 
It has really been rather funny. But I haven’t 
teased him. The episode has helped him also to 


242 


PATUFFA 


recover. I’ve only looked on with the ripe wis¬ 
dom of twenty-four years. He has now returned 
to his studies on Pagan and Christian sculpture; 
but he glances up from his books now and again, 
and murmurs: 1 A most fascinating, adorable 
woman, and what a genuis.’ I answer, ‘ Yes, 
Chummy,’ quite soberly, and try to suppress the 
twinkle wdiich I am sure comes into my eye. I 
have returned to my poor neglected Popes—Pius 
V, Adrian VI, Clement XIV and others. They 
feel very tame after Janeiro. For the moment 
I don’t seem to care where and whether they were 
buried. . . . Chummy came in then, settled down 
in his chair, lit a cigar, and after a few minutes, 
said: ‘ 'What a genius — what an adorable woman 
— what an inspiring and inspired personage — 
and with a heart of gold.’ 

“These parents — what strange beings they 


CHAPTER V 


I 

A ND Mama? Well, Mama was having a 
sad struggle with herself, and the upshot 
of it was that she decided to break off her 
engagement to Andrew Steyning. She was un¬ 
happy at having failed Patuffa in a time of trouble. 
She knew that if their intimate relationship had 
not undergone a change, it was she who would 
have taken Patuffa away, or she would at least 
have included herself in the party that made for 
Rome. Instead, she had preferred to remain at 
home and devote all her time and thoughts to her 
Andrew. 

Also, she had been troubled when it leaked out 
inadvertently through Madame Tcharushin that 
Patuffa was not intending to live in her mother’s 
new home. This was natural enough, Mama 
knew. But it hurt. And when Mark and Eric, 
from distant and different parts of the globe wrote 
in exactly the same strain, saying that they would 
soon “ dish that bounder ” when they came back, 
Mama’s discomfiture grew apace. 

Patuffa’s scrappy letters, and then her complete 

silence save for a few postcards, added to her 

243 


244 


PATUFFA 


unrest. This unrest was crowned by Chummy’s 
account of the tragedy of Peter Long, with no 
suggestion from any one of them that Mama 
should come and help with her presence. Not a 
single word from Patuffa saying she was in trouble 
and wanted Mama. Think of it. A postcard of 
the Colosseum, another of the Villa D’Este, an¬ 
other of the Column of Phocas. What were these 
things worth to her when she was longing for a 
sign that she was wanted? 

She realized that she had put herself out of 
the picture. She began again to ask herself 
pointed questions. Did she love Steyning well 
enough to sacrifice for him everything she had 
hitherto valued and worked for? Was her love 
for him merely a passion which would pass, an 
aberration from which she would recover to find 
herself stranded on an alien shore? Did she 
truthfully want the life which Steyning had to 
offer — his rich and secured position, his social 
obligations and conventional successes? Would 
she truly be content and happy without her old 
intimacy with Patuffa, without the stimulus of 
ups and downs, events of a stirring nature, jour¬ 
neys, rehearsals, thrills, concerts, tempers, excit¬ 
ing acquaintances and friends and all other items 
of the musical profession? Was she missing 
them? Certainly one night she had a most worry¬ 
ing dream, that she was utterly bored and out 
of spirits in the luxurious Kensington house in 
which she was imprisoned, and that she escaped 


PATUFFA 


245 


through the window by means of a ladder placed 
by Patuffa. She aw r oke saying: “ Oh, Patuffa, 
thank Heaven you’ve rescued me.” 


II 

She could not forget that dream. She was 
haunted by the remembrance of that ladder. And 
later, when Irene’s letter came, she was torn by 
the belief that she was responsible for the whole 
affair of Peter Long. If she had been in Rome, 
on the old terms, with no one between herself 
and Patuffa, she would have certainly been in her 
child’s confidence from the beginning, and might 
have had an instinct of impending disaster. Why 
not? Irene had evidently sensed some danger. 
And surely she, Patuffa’s mother, would have 
sensed it far more acutely. 

Out of the picture altogether. No one want¬ 
ing her. Every one taking it for granted that 
she was out of reach. And now Madame Janeiro 
arriving. A glorious artist, a wonderful and 
splendid personage. Yet an entire stranger. But 
she, a stranger, had risen to the occasion, and 
whisked Patuffa off in a whirlwind of kindness and 
helpfulness, stepping in where Mama had failed. 
Failed — that was the word. All through An¬ 
drew Steyning. She hated herself entirely — and 
him almost. She was so irritable to him one after¬ 
noon, that he wondered what had happened to 


246 


PATUFFA 


her, or what he had done to vex her. Of course, 
poor wretch, he had done nothing. He was not 
to know that she saw a ladder dangling before 
her, placed by Patuffa at the window of his 
luxurious house. 


Ill 

She unburdened herself to Madame Tcha- 
rushin. Madame Pat was always exceedingly 
amused over people’s love affairs, quite helpful 
and indulgent always, but impenitently seeing 
comedy where the victim, of course, only sensed 
tragedy. This habit might have been irritating 
in any one less wholeheartedly sympathetic. 

Even in Patuffa’s case, she pretended to be 
unimpressed by the tragic side of the incident. 

“ Now really that is very funny, Marionska,” 
she had said when she heard the news. “ And 
how lucky that Patuffe found out the truth before 
marriage instead of after. One generally dis¬ 
covers these pleasant little facts afterwards. Poor 
little Patuffe. But I am sure she is going about 
thinking she will have a broken heart all her life. 
That is a great advantage, you know. I tremble 
to think how we should get along without the 
comfort of believing that our hearts are broken. 
That strong belief sustains us grandly until we 
have mended them.” 

She had the rare gift of teasing in the right 
way. She pounced immediately on the ladder. 


PATUFFA 


247 


on the dream ladder, and asked what kind of 
ladder it was. Was it an ordinary ladder used by 
painters, with splotches of paint on it? Was it 
a golden ladder by which you escaped from heaven 
to earth, or from earth to heaven? Did Mama 
experience any difficulty in getting down, or did 
she spring like a fairy into the glorious freedom 
awaiting her? 

“ It’s very funny, you know, Marionska,” she 
said. u You will pardon me for laughing. But 
laugh I must. And when I have laughed enough, 
and you also have laughed and have changed 
your expression from so great tragedy to that of 
a comfortable comedy, then we must see what is 
to be done.” 

Mama laughed, in spite of her bewilderment. 
It was easy to laugh w r ith an old school friend 
with whom one had not to keep up any pose or 
pretense of dignity. 

“ Not for one moment, Marionska,” Madame 
Pat went on, “ did I believe you really wanted 
that calm existence offered by your so admirable 
Andrew. No, my friend, never did I believe that 
folly of you. You had a sheltered and dull life 
in the years long ago. No one could ask for that 
again. I have been thinking of you as quite mad. 
But as you wanted to be mad, Patuffa and I agreed 
to help and not hinder you too much in your 
ambition. She promised me, I promised her. 
We have both broken our sacred promises to each 
other. That is the way life goes. Patuffa has 


248 


PATUFFA 

been disagreeable to the choice of your heart, 
and I have done nothing but tease you. Most 
nobly we said — and I wish you could have heard 
us — most nobly we said: 4 Mama must have 
her happiness.’ And that was the end of our 
nobility! But, Marionska, if it is not happiness, 
if it is only misery and doubt, well, then, the only 
sensible thing to do is to bring a ladder like Pa- 
tuffe brought in your so exciting dream, and to 
hold it firm and solid for you to spring to your 
freedom in safety. I am ready to help. I am 
at your service.” 

She certainly was. She analyzed the situation 
most thoroughly. No point did she omit. Pa¬ 
tuffa out in the cold — no one could deny that — 
and more or less alienated as her silence showed 
■—very sad for Mama — but Marionska could not 
have it in all ways — no one could — one had to 
make one’s choice between a postcard of the 
Colosseum — a very good one too — and an un¬ 
divided heart free and ready for a daughter’s 
need. 

So much for Patuffa. And now about the boys. 
Eric angry in China. Mark angry in South 
America. Both equally determined to use all the 
resources of the English Navy to send the pirate 
vessel to the bottom of the sea. What a promis¬ 
ing, peaceful state of affairs! 

And now about Mama. Mama married, rich, 
looking very beautiful in beautiful furs and per¬ 
haps a little bored — perhaps very bored, and 


PA T UEFA 


249 


craving desperately for one of Patuffa’s exciting 
tempers. Mama loving the so admirable Andrew 
— oh, yes, loving the good man quite well enough, 
but torn. Mama throwing him over before mar¬ 
riage— but torn. Mama throwing him over 
after marriage — but torn. The poor Andrew 
as heart-broken as a man could be — was that 
very much? Well, well, she was not sure — she 
never had been sure. 

But, to continue, Andrew heart-broken and torn 
before marriage. Andrew heart-broken and torn 
after marriage, when Mama descended by that 
ladder to her beautiful freedom which perhaps 
she might not enjoy at all when she had got it 
again! In any case Mama had to be torn. And 
the only question was for Marionska to decide 
which kind of being torn she would be most com¬ 
fortable in. And, of course, part of the being torn 
was giving pain to the good artist man who painted 
all those well-behaved pictures of ugly and well- 
known men and women all staring at you in the 
big room of the so Royal Academy. 

It was quite likely he deserved punishment for 
these sins against true art, but not the pain 
Marionska might perhaps be giving him — per¬ 
haps, one was never quite sure — never. Perhaps 
even he might be glad instead of sad. Ha! 
There was that view. He also was taking a great 
step — to change his habits at fifty-six — and to 
begin to accommodate himself to a step-daughter 
like Patuffska, who would never accommodate 


250 


P A T U F F A 


herself to him. Never. Perhaps he would be 
secretly relieved and say to himself: “ Ah, ah, 
what an escape!” No? Well, perhaps Mama 
was right. Perhaps she knew her Andrew. But 
perhaps she was wrong, and didn’t know her 
Andrew. 

And naughty little Madame Tcharushin 
laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. She 
could not help being amused. 

“ I apologize, Marionska,” she kept on say¬ 
ing. “ I ask you to pour me out another cup 
of tea. I ask you to hand me another cigarette, 
and to light it for me. I have not the nerve left. 
Light one yourself. That’s good. Now you look 
less tragic. Just as beautiful, my dear old school 
friend, but less tragic. Am I forgiven? Of 
course I am.” 

The end of it all was that Mama thought she 
would be less torn if she told Andrew Steyning 
that she could not bring herself to separate from 
her home and her children. 

“ Very well, then,” said Madame Tcharushin, 
“ go and tell him without delay, Marionska, if 
you really mean it, and before you change your 
so fickle mind. And why should not grown-up 
people be fickle? The young must not keep all 
the good things of life to themselves. I refuse 
to allow this injustice.” 

“ Pat, I would not own it to any one else on 
earth,” Mama confessed, “ but I think I’ve been 


PATUFFA 251 

torn all the time — even in my happiest hours 
with him.” 

u One is always torn, my child,” her friend 
said. “ That is life.” 


IV 

Mama did not write to Andrew Steyning. She 
went to see him. She had always been on big 
lines, direct and simple, with no touch of false¬ 
ness or pretense in her nature. Her honesty of 
spirit did not fail her now. She told him that 
she had thought she loved him passionately, so 
passionately that nothing else counted, but that 
she had found out that she didn’t, and that her 
love and longing for Patuffa and the boys came 
first and would always come first, and that she 
had made a very great mistake and had behaved 
shamefully, and most unfairly to him. 

She told him about Peter Long. She said that 
she believed the affair would never have occurred 
if she had been on the spot, for Patuffa would 
have confided in her. That was the point that 
troubled her most. She had lost Patuffa’s con¬ 
fidence, lost her intimacy, and it was more than 
she could bear. And it came to this: other peo¬ 
ple, dear friends, it is true, were going to make 
a home for her and were taking care of her, 
whilst her own mother, to whom up to now she 
had meant everything in the world, was love-mak- 


252 


PATUFFA 


ing and thinking only of herself. She had not 
even been thinking of Andrew’s welfare. If she 
had had the least consideration for him, she 
would have faced the truth unflinchingly that the 
love she was able to give him would be a love 
torn by longing for her children; and she would 
therefore have seen to it, as a matter of honor 
and fairness, that no sign from her gave him 
cause for hope. 

“ Instead of which,” she said, “ I suffered my¬ 
self to be swept along by my own passions — by 
the wonder and delight of loving once more and 
being loved. I have behaved with no more self- 
control than my poor little Patuffa in Rome — 
no better than any headlong young thing of nine¬ 
teen years old — worse, in fact, for there is every 
excuse for the young, in their spring time, but 
for me, at my age — none. I offer no excuse. 
There is none. All I can do now, is to own my 
fault most humbly, and to tell you that I don’t 
want to marry you, don’t want to embark on a 
new life, feel sure that I couldn’t, and that if I 
did, it would only spell failure for you and me.” 

She paused a moment, and then continued: 

“ I can’t hope that you will ever forgive me, 
and I don’t deserve to be forgiven for behaving 
so unfairly to you. But this is the penalty I have 
to pay for my utter madness in supposing I could 
be happy in repudiating my duties, in giving a 
divided heart to my children and in yielding up 
my freedom — for that comes in, too, indeed it 


PATUFFA 


253 


does — I dread giving up my freedom — and it 
wouldn’t be honest of me, Andrew, if I did not 
tell you this also.” 

There were some moments of nerve-racking 
silence after Mama had ended. She had been 
pacing up and down the studio as she spoke, and 
she now stood against the mantel-shelf, fumbling 
with her long watch-chain, biting her lip. If he 
did not speak soon, she believed she would have 
to implore him to say something — it didn’t mat¬ 
ter what — but something. 

At last he rose from the sofa and came to¬ 
wards her. He seemed very broken, and his face 
was ashen. 

“ Dearest,” he said in a low tone of voice, 
“ you must know you have given me a grievous 
blow. But at least I thank you for coming to me. 
It was like you to come and tell me yourself in¬ 
stead of writing. It would have been easier to 
you to write — far easier. But you came and 
laid the whole matter before me in your own grand 
and direct manner which I have adored and al¬ 
ways shall adore. I shall always thank you for 
that.” 

He seemed lost in thought again, or else still 
stunned. He made no reproaches whatsoever. 
She would have been thankful if he had shown 
anger and indignation. Anything would have been 
more bearable than that look of dumb suffering 
on Andrew’s face. He did not argue with her, 
did not implore her to delay her decision, did not 


254 


PATUFFA 


say that he could wait, that he knew how to wait 
and that when and if she wanted his love, it was 
there for her. He did not urge it on her that 
Patuffa would marry and go her own path, and 
the boys would live their own lives in their own 
way, and that her part would be loneliness — the 
unfailing return for a record of fidelity. If these 
thoughts passed through his mind — and perhaps 
they did — Steyning gave them no utterance. 
When he again emerged from the distant region 
to which his suffering of spirit had driven him, he 
turned half dreamily to his easel. 

“ At least one has one’s work,” he murmured, 
“ that does not fail one.” 

He took his palette and stared at it, his brush 
and stared at it. He turned from her and began 
working at the picture on his easel, as if he were 
in a trance. 

Mama stole away, with bowed head. She 
dared not look at that forlorn figure*. 


CHAPTER VI 


T HUS, for better or for worse, Mama’s love 
adventure came to an end, and she was 
free — distressed, as she deserved to be, 
but free. She was haunted by the vision of that 
forlorn figure of Andrew turning to his easel and 
his work which would never fail him as she had 
done. His sad words echoed back to her: 

“At least one has one f s work . That does not 
fail one” 

She was so troublesome with all her attacks of 
remorse, that Madame Tcharushin lost patience 
and said: 

“ Look here, Marionska, of course you have 
behaved badly. Most of us do. But now you 
have got your freedom and are not going to be 
shut up in that Schlusselburg Fortress of Pros¬ 
perity which always gives me what you call the 
humps every time I think of it — now you’ve got 
your freedom, do be sensible and make up your 
mind to enjoy it. You may not have it for long. 
You may have another adventure. These adven¬ 
tures once begun, can very well become a habit. 
Once more you may want to have ‘ ordered seren¬ 
ity ’ with another so quiet and admirable Andrew 

Steyning — who knows? Take my advice, and 

255 


256 


PATUFFA 


lose not a minute of this precious period of lib¬ 
erty. Cheer up this very instant. What you de¬ 
scribe to me so tragically as that poor forlorn 
figure — yes, I see him, the poor Andrew — will 
not for very, very long remain a forlorn figure. 
I don’t say he will forget you. No one could for¬ 
get Mama. That would be impossible. But you 
will retire gracefully into the background and take 
your place as a beautiful regret. He will go on 
painting some more — many more of those por¬ 
traits I admire so much — hein ? — and be quite, 
quite happy. Perhaps happier.” 

She did not tell Mama as much, but she chose 
to believe that Andrew Steyning, in spite of his 
grief at losing Mama and in spite of his own 
wounded pride, would end by being beatifically re¬ 
lieved at not having to cope with Mama’s family 
— and especially, of course, Patuffa. He would 
in his sober senses perhaps reflect that it would 
be futile to wait in the hope that Patuffa would 
marry and clear off the scenes. It was true she 
might marry, one day, but she would never clear 
off the scenes. At any moment she might aban¬ 
don her husband and return to Mama to be ar¬ 
ranged for and dealt with — or not dealt with. 
Seen at close quarters, this was not an alluring 
landscape for any stepfather. No wonder, 
thought Madame Pat, with a smile, no wonder 
he had not tried to persuade Mama. So she har¬ 
bored the secret but impious belief that the ladder 
for Mama’s escape, provided by Patuffa in that 


P A T U F F A 257 

most intriguing dream, had been actually fur¬ 
nished by her in real life. 

And perhaps she was right. 

In the process of wondering what she could do 
to help dispel the vision of the broken-hearted 
artist at his easel, Madame Tcharushin. obligingly 
fell ill with a bad attack of bronchial pneumonia 
and was even considerate enough to show signs 
of being about to change her world, a plan which 
Mama could by no means allow her to carry out. 
It had therefore to be frustrated by good nursing 
and an entire sacrifice of time and thought on 
Mama’s part, leaving not very much leisure to be 
expended either on the vision of the broken¬ 
hearted Steyning man or on the vague estrange¬ 
ment from Patuffa. 

And in addition there were Pat’s numerous 
compatriots to take charge of. Old Father 
Kuprianoff was frail and needed care. Moshinski 
was depressed and needed heartening, and all 
were in want of the gay sympathy which they had 
been accustomed to receive from their comrade 
now lying so dangerously ill upstairs. 

Some of them had been known to Mama for 
years, and with them she was at her ease; but 
there were also new comers, not propagandists of 
a mild nature, but terrorists of the fiercest, most 
uncompromising caliber of whom Mama was 
really rather frightened, though she showed a 
brave front. She knew that they would not drop 
a bomb in Madame Tcharushin’s lodgings — 


258 


PATUFFA 


anywhere but there, naturally — but she had the 
feeling, nevertheless, that bombs were in the air, 
in the samovar, in the bronchitis kettle, in the ox¬ 
tail soup she brought, in the calf’s foot jelly, in 
everything. She could never look at the quietly 
fierce and determined face of Tatiana Kroshins- 
kaya without wondering what on earth was going 
to happen next. 

She did her best for them in every way, with 
that charm of simple manner which won her so 
many hearts. They liked Mama tremendously 
and came to regard her presence amongst them 
as an absolute necessity of their everyday lives. 
They never knew it, of course, but they and all 
they stood for in the way of suffering and courage 
and unselfishness of purpose helped Mama to for¬ 
get her manifold troubles. 

Mama was a little shocked with herself when 
she realized that her thoughts of Steyning were 
receding to the background of remembrance and 
that her remorse for her conduct was weakening. 
But she excused herself by reflecting that no one 
could think of bombs, and imprisonments, and 
trials, and escapes, and floggings and hangings 
and Andrew at the same time. It could not be 
done — no, not by any mortal. 

When the crisis of Madame Pat’s illness was 
over, and she began to recover, the first words 
she said to Mama were: 

“Tell me, Marionska, how is the so tragic 

• • ^ 
vision r 


PATUFFA 


259 


“ You’ve given me no time for the vision, Pat 
dearest,” Mama answered. “ You know you 
have been so very ill. You have nearly died.” 

“ Indeed,” whispered Madame Tcharushin. 
U I have nearly died, have I? But again I ask 
about the vision.” 

“ It is dimmer,” conceded Mama reluctantly. 

“Aha,” said Pat. “Much dimmer?” 

Mama hesitated, and then repeated with a 
funny little half-ashamed expression on her face: 

“ Much dimmer.” 

“ Good,” murmured Madame Tcharushin. 
“ And how is the freedom? ” 

“ The freedom is going on very well, Pat,” 
Mama said. “ But you mustn’t speak. You must 
close your eyes and go to sleep again.” 

“ One little question more would I like to ask,” 
Madame said. “ Has that broken-hearted man 
married his housekeeper yet? ” 

“ Oh, Pat,” Mama reproached. “ How can 
you! Do go to sleep again.” 

Madame Tcharushin had only opened one eye. 
She winked with it, closed it and fell asleep with 
a smile of mischief playing round her lips. 


CHAPTER VII 




I N due time Mama was able to turn her atten¬ 
tion to her own affairs. She renewed the 
lease of the house and had the children’s bed¬ 
rooms re-papered. She conceived the most pas¬ 
sionate love for her home again, and had it trebly 
spring-cleaned, quite unnecessarily. She won¬ 
dered how she could ever have thought of aban¬ 
doning it. She spent recklessly over new Liberty 
curtains and cushions and sold one of her best 
rings to buy a Persian carpet, for a long time 
coveted by that part of her heart which was in¬ 
curably domestic. She made the house an entic¬ 
ing haven for Patuffa to return to, with all sorts 
of new little graces which she thought would 
appeal to her. 

Cousin Keble who came as usual to look her up 
from time to time, noted the improvements with¬ 
out comment but with secret vexation. He would 
have liked best to see that house dismantled, not 
renovated. He had pictured to himself Mama 
married to Steyning and Patuffa alone, and in her 
loneliness turning to him for love. It had seemed 
to him that the way was being prepared by Mama 
and Fate. And now Mama and Fate had both 

failed him. It was too bad of them. He swore 

260 




PATUFFA 


261 


at Fate, and he could almost have shaken Cousin 
Marion. He had been buoyed up by the belief 
that he had been making progress with Patuffa, 
and that his efforts to fall into line with her had 
borne encouraging fruit. And now came this an¬ 
noying setback. 

But he squared his jaw and reminded himself 
repeatedly that he knew how to wait, that he had 
always known how to wait. And as he had been 
briefed for the prosecution in one of the most 
important cases that had yet come into his net, 
he was exceedingly busy and could at least console 
himself that he was making good in his career, 
and thus in another direction advancing towards 
his goal. 

But Cousin Keble had to square his jaw still 
more when he heard about Peter Long. Yet even 
then he did not lose heart, so deeply rooted was 
his belief that sooner or later he would win 
Patuffa’s love — not her mere comradeship, not 
her friendship only, but her love. There would 
be other incidents — there would be other men. 
But in the end — if he remained patient and stub¬ 
born— as he would remain — and if he contin¬ 
ued to suppress his authoritative instincts as he 
most truly wished to do and intended to do — if 
he could let her become absolutely certain that 
life with him would be freedom and not bondage 
— then, in the end, his long hope might have its 
due fulfilment. 

Thus he fortified himself, and passed on his 


262 


PATUFFA 


way without a sign to Cousin Marion that the 
alteration in her own plans had been something 
of a blow to him. 

But perhaps she guessed. Perhaps that was 
why Mama was extra kind and charming to him 
and made him feel that whatever her own vaga¬ 
ries, or Patuffa’s vagaries, or his own quiet and 
rather dignified pose of equanimity, she knew and 
understood and was on his side. 

She wrote and told the boys that she was not 
going to marry again and that all was as before, 
except that their bedrooms had been re-papered 
and the ceilings whitewashed, and that when they 
came home, there would not be any one whom it 
might be necessary to knock down. To Patuffa 
she went into detail: 

“ All is as before,” she wrote. “ I’ve had an 
obsession — a very thrilling one, darling, but one 
from which I have recovered. I couldn’t face 
giving up our own home, our own circumstances. 
I am increasingly sure that I should never have 
been happy, though for a time I thought I should, 
and tried hard to pretend to myself that my re¬ 
marriage would make no difference to the rela¬ 
tionship between me and you children. Of course 
it would have made all the difference. Even the 
prospect of it did, as you well know. When I 
learnt from Pat that you were going to live with 
Chummy and Irene, I felt simply awful, Patuffa, 
my darling. You had kept that from me because 
you wanted me to sail along and enjoy my happi- 


PATUFFA 


263 


ness, with occasional reminders, I’m bound to ad¬ 
mit, that you would be willing to tear out my poor 
Andrew’s hair. I have behaved disgracefully to 
him, but I couldn’t help it. When I heard of the 
trouble that had befallen you in your love affair 
— and I not there to stand by and help you — 
and you not wanting me, not asking for me, not 
telling me a single word either of your happiness 
or of your anguish, then I knew that nothing in 
life mattered to me as much as our bond of in¬ 
timacy. That you have not reached out to me in 
your distress has been natural enough in the cir¬ 
cumstances which I myself created, but none the 
less painful — more so. 

“ But this was more than I could bear. So I 
freed myself, and then, just as I was free, Pat fell 
ill, as you know. And then came the news that 
Madame Janeiro carried you off to Milan. That 
was the best healing you could have. Yet I am 
jealous of her, though I know I oughtn’t to be. 
Of Chummy and Irene I never could be jealous, 
since they belong to us and we to them. Yet it 
seemed dreadful that any action of mine should 
be forcing you to seek even such a haven as Head¬ 
quarters. 

“ Well, that is over. As long as you care for 
and need your home, it is ready for you, 1 swept 
and garnished.’ The coast is clear. The parent 
has come to her senses. Not much of a parent, I 
admit whole-heartedly. I leave her to you for 
judgment. She is another example of Pat’s con- 


264 


PATUFFA 


soling theory that parents are but poor specimens 
of humanity, and are being found out at last. 

“ Pat gains strength every day, though she 
looks almost as frail as she did when you first 
saw her after you had run away from one of your 
many schools — do you remember? — when she 
came to us after her escape from Siberia. She 
is merry and mischievous and teases me unmerci¬ 
fully, and asks me very often whether I am en¬ 
joying my freedom. I am enjoying it. I want 
you to be quite clear about that. Come home 
soon, darling, or if you have planned to stay 
where you are or to return to Rome, you have 
only to say the word, and I'll shut up the house 
and dash out to join you with our last farthing. 
To be wanted by you as before, would seem to 
me the greatest joy that could now befall me — 
an undeserved joy — but the greatest.” 


i 


CHAPTER VIII 


I 

N OTHING could have been more opportune 
for Patuffa than her unforeseen friendship 
with Madame Janeiro. “ Company with 
the great,” said some musician, “ is ever the best 
in the long run to help us across the world.” 

It helped Patuffa in miraculous fashion, and 
gave her an emotional and a musical uplift at the 
moment when she most needed rallying. 

Janeiro had come to Milan partly to see some 
old friends and partly to fulfil a concert engage¬ 
ment at the Teatro Lirico. She was going to play 
the Beethoven Emperor Concerto and three of 
Chopins Ftudes and Liszt’s Fantasia, Apres une 
lecture de Dante. 

Patuffa, well accustomed to Stefansky’s strange 
behavior before a concert, was a tower of 
strength in the midst of distracting circumstances. 
But up to then she had never seen any one behave 
as Janeiro. The pianist had been in perfect 
health and in the best of spirits in the morning. 
They had taken a drive together, and she had 
practised happily and pronounced herself to be in 

excellent form for her strenuous program. 

265 


266 


PATUFFA 


Later in the day she took to her bed, wept co¬ 
piously and said she was very ill and was going 
to die. 

“ Patuffe, Patuffe, I am dying,” she sobbed. 
“My end is coming — it is come. I am dead. 
Send for the manager. I cannot play at the con¬ 
cert if I am dead. How can I play the Emperor 
Concerto if I am dead? Could I do the noble 
Beethoven justice — or Chopin whom I adore, or 
my beloved Liszt, the great-hearted? Send for 
the doctor. Send for the priest. The concert 
must be put off. There will be no concert. Do 
you hear me, my child? I am very, very ill — 
champagne — quick — before it is too late — it 
is too late — send for the manager — for the 
doctor — for the priest — oh, my child, why did 
I ever say I would play to-night — oh, oh, how 
could I play when I was dying all the morning — 
I knew I was dying — you saw how ill I was all 
the morning—dying.” 

Madame’s maid was new, and all she did was 
to go into hysterics. The manager was new, and 
when he came and heard that Janeiro could not 
play, he went one better and was almost in a 
frenzy. The doctor, young and inexperienced, 
seemed as unnerved as the manager. The priest’s 
fat and flabby presence shed no heavenly peace 
around the sick chamber. Patuffa alone supplied 
the calm. She collected them all round the bed. 
The doctor prescribed, the priest gabbled prayers, 
the manager wrung his hands, the maid wept and 


PATUFFA 


267 


knelt by the bedside. Janeiro said farewell to 
every one and left Pom-pom to Patuffa as a sacred 
trust. Then Patuffa dismissed the audience, sat 
down quietly, and lit a cigarette. She hated 
smoking, but now and again she endured the or¬ 
deal at a crisis. And this was one. 

After a time a faint voice came from the 
bed: 

“ Ah, that is a delicious fragrance, Patuffe.” 

There was a pause. 

“ Perhaps I could have one or two little puffs 
at a cigarette, Patuffe.” 

Patuffa made no sign. 

“Patuffe, did you hear me? Perhaps I could 
have one or two little puffs at a cigarette.” 

Patuffa kept a grave countenance, whilst she 
brought cigarettes and matches. 

There was another pause. 

“ Patuffe, I should like my little dear Pom¬ 
pom.” 

Patuffa brought Pom-pom, who had been ban¬ 
ished to the sofa in the sitting-room. 

“ Patuffe,” murmured the voice, “ I have been 
very, very ill, but I am a little better now.” 

“ Rest, dear Madame Janeiro,” Patuffa said, 
bending over her. “ Rest and recover. There is 
nothing to worry you now the concert has been 
canceled.” 

There was another pause. 

“ Patuffe, did you say the concert has been 
canceled? ” 


268 


PATUFFA 


“ Yes,” nodded Patuffa cheerfully. “ Nothing 
to worry about now. All is arranged.” 

Then she went into the sitting-room, and with 
a smile on her face took out her Stradivari and 
began to improvise. And very cleverly she 
wove in some passages from the Emperor 
Concerto. 

“ That will stir her,” she thought. 

And it did. Suddenly the bedroom door was 
flung open, and Janeiro rushed in, looking the 
picture of health and beauty in her flowing pink 
silk nightgown. 

“ My child,” she cried excitedly, “ that was 
well done! Clever little girl! Ah, my God, what 
a giant was our glorious Beethoven! And this 
Concerto — what a miracle of beauty! I wall 
play it now. To-night I am sure I shall play it 
more beautifully than I have ever played it in my 
long career. I feel inspired, uplifted, Patuffe. 
Listen to me now.” 

“ But the concert is canceled,” Patuffa said 
gravely. “ What are we to do? ” 

“ Uncancel it! ” cried Janeiro, waving her arms 
about. “ Immediately, at once, Patuffe. I am 
strong. I am well. I am recovered. I dress. I 
go. I play. Run, run, my child.” 

Patuffa found the manager, who by her instruc¬ 
tions had remained in the hotel. 

“ Signor,” she said, laughing, “ don’t look so 
anxious. I told you it would be all right. I un¬ 
dertake to bring her to-night, dead or alive. But 


P A T U F F A 269 

I am sure she will be very much alive and at her 
best.” 

Janeiro played and had a glorious triumph. 
She was a consummate artist, and had that sim¬ 
plicity, and pure truthfulness which matured 
power alone bestows upon the thinking virtuoso. 
After the Concert she gave herself up to fun and 
enjoyment and did everything she could to make 
Patuffa happy. Wayward, impossible at times, 
she was an adorable companion, clever and bright 
and ready for any adventure. Half a queen, half 
a Bohemian, joyous, grave, frivolous, earnest, 
none too moral, as the world calls morality, but 
with a heart of gold and of kindness unbounded. 

They spent halcyon days together in Milan, in 
the Cathedral, in the Brera, in San Ambrogio and 
S. Eustorgio and S. Maria delle Grazie. She 
shared with Patuffa all the joys and privileges of 
her standing in the world of music. She brought 
her little colleague forward on every occasion and 
made her play to many influential friends. 
Janeiro did not know what selfishness meant. Al¬ 
ways she wanted to share, to give chances to new 
and young artists. And in Patuffa’s case she was 
fully bent on carrying out the role of healer en¬ 
trusted her first by Chummy, then by the dictates 
of her affection, and then by a firm belief in the 
girl’s fine gifts. 

She took her to the appartamento of the fa¬ 
mous ’cellist, Signor Fragini, in the Piazza Bor- 


270 


PATUFFA 


romeo, and they played with him Schumann’s Trio 
in A Minor and Beethoven’s in E Flat, Op. 70.2. 
It was Fragini who told her that the Master had 
said that three dozen of Imperial Tokay went into 
the making of the last movement! 

And then, honor of honors, Brahms chanced to 
pass that way. They played him his own Sonata 
in G Major, and Patuffa nearly died from pride 
and pleasure when he praised her tone and style 
and the individuality of her interpretation. 

Thus Madame Janeiro opened the door wide, 
and gave her the entrance into the camaraderie 
of the great and famous. Patuffa thrilled with 
new interests, reenforced with fresh ambitions, 
brooded less and less over Peter Long, gazed less 
and less frequently at the little sketch-book, sole 
outward remembrance of that passionate joy 
which had ended with such tragic abruptness. 

But in the midst of her varied experiences, she 
was often homesick, and began to long for Mama. 
Yet ^whenever that yearning overcame her, the 
same chill struck at her heart in remembering that 
she did not count as in the past, that Mama was 
no longer hers, that Andrew Steyning stood be¬ 
tween them, and always would stand between 
them now. But for that barrier, it is more than 
possible that Patuffa might have bolted to Mama, 
so great was her need, sometimes. But directly 
she called to mind the changed atmosphere of her 
home, the impulse of flight died down easily 
enough in Madame Janeiro’s irresistible compan- 


PATUFFA 271 

ionship and the many events which were born 
of it 


II 

One day, Janeiro, in splendid spirits, in mis¬ 
chievous mood and bent on an outing, learnt that 
Signor Fragini had some transaction on hand at a 
Villa about one or two kilometers away from 
Monza, belonging to one of the old nobility. The 
family owned a very perfect Joseph Guarnerius 
violoncello which the Marchese was willing to 
sell. Fragini was to have the first refusal of it. 

“ The very thing,” cried Janeiro. “ Patuffe and 
I come too, Fragini. We take this good chance 
to see the old Villa and the lovely old violoncello, 
and to hear you bargaining with the Marchese, as 
beautifully as you play on your instrument. We 
see the Cathedral and the Iron Crown, and we 
dine at a trattoria like simple good peasants. 
And Pom-pom of course accompanies us. Ah, it 
will be a nice little drive for that sweet little dog. 
That is settled.” 

“ But, carissima,” objected Signor Fragini, “ I 
dare not take you. It is to be a private, a very 
secret business. That is the condition. Why, I 
know not, but so it is. I cannot possibly take any 
friends with me on such an errand. I go alone to 
Monza. To-morrow we will go out and enjoy 
ourselves elsewhere, perhaps to the Certosa, and 
that will be just as good for Pom-pom.” 


272 PATUFFA 

Janeiro’s eyes blazed fire. She did not like to 
be thwarted. 

u No,” she said, crossly. “ It is to-day we must 
go. I care nothing about the business being se¬ 
cret. I have made up my mind to go, Fragini. 
No use to say 4 no,’ when I insist.” 

Signor Fragini knew that only too well. It 
would be far easier to oppose the Pope than Ma¬ 
dame Janeiro when she insisted. So off to Monza 
they went, together with Pom-pom who never 
ceased yelping all the time. 

“ Ah, my little darling prima donna — what a 
voice!” laughed Janeiro. “What a beautiful 
sound after my cruel banging on the pianoforte, 
and Patuffe’s terrible scratching on her violino. 
This is the true music of the divine human voice. 
Nothing can compare with it. Encore — encore, 
Pom-pom! Stay on the platform, my little Pom¬ 
pom, and take a continuous recall! ” 

She enjoyed the pleasant and shady drive and 
sang trills and bravura passages in which Pom¬ 
pom joined. Patuffa laughed until she could 
laugh no more, and the climax of merriment was 
reached when Janeiro insisted on stopping the 
carriage and getting out to dance the “ Shadow 
Dance ” Then she threw Pom-pom in the air and 
caught her dramatically in an embrace. She em¬ 
braced Fragini, she embraced Patuffa, she almost 
embraced the driver who was clapping her en¬ 
thusiastically. To Patuffa she said: 

“ My child, I wish our friend Chummy, the 


PATUFFA 


273 


good friend of all musicians, could see you. Such 
a pink color on the face. Such a brightness in the 
eyes. Fresh life, fresh ambition, fresh courage. 
Isn’t it so? ” 

They visited the Cathedral and saw the Iron 
Cross and the tomb and relics of Theodolinda, 
and then made their way to the Villa which was 
approached by an avenue of trees and entered 
through fine old seventeenth-century gates. They 
were received by a grave retainer who conducted 
them to a large sala adorned with frescoes of 
rural scenes. It overlooked the garden with its 
palm trees and oleanders, and seemed a sad and 
gloomy room, of faded but stately splendor. 
There was a picture in a dark recess which Signor 
Fragini told them was reputed to be a Luini, and 
there were beautiful old chests which Janeiro cov¬ 
eted the moment her eyes beheld them. 

They had a few minutes to look around before 

* 

the Marchese arrived. Fie was a little insignifi¬ 
cant man, and evidently nervy. He seemed sur¬ 
prised to find three people and Pom-pom waiting 
for him, and glanced anxiously at Signor Fragini 
as if asking the reason why he was thus favored. 
Fragini did the wise thing and told him with many 
appropriate gesticulations that the ladies had sim¬ 
ply refused to be left at home, but that all would 
be well and the secret would be in safe keeping. 

The Marchese bowed, smiled, accepted the 
situation with a true courtesy, but was anxious and 
apprehensive. Fie disappeared suddenly, and 


274 


PATUFFA 


when he returned, listened at the door before he 
closed it gently. Then he nodded as if reassured, 
proceeded to open a heavily-studded violoncello 
case at the further end of the room, and took out 
the instrument. When he had placed it in 
Fragini’s hands, he hurried to guard the door! 
It was a most mysterious precaution, and Patuffa 
wished they had not intruded on him, for he was 
so obviously torn between the natural desire of an 
Italian to be polite, and some unknown but very 
real anxiety. When Pom-pom yelped he gave a 
start, and with an almost imploring gesture, en¬ 
joined silence. Madame Janeiro, rather cross, 
smothered Pom-pom. 

Fragini meanwhile, lost to the world, was ex¬ 
amining the Joseph Guarnerius violoncello, turn¬ 
ing it over and smiling radiantly and nodding to 
himself as he satisfied himself on its points. He 
took out a small microscope and studied the rich 
varnish. At last he screwed up the bow and pre¬ 
pared to test the tone of the instrument which 
had all its strings intact. The Marchese had 
another fright and rushed up to him dramatically. 

“ If you must play on it,” he entreated, “ I beg 
of you only to play pianissimo.” 

He then bolted back to the door which for 
some reason had to be held against all odds. But 
he was so agitated that he rushed back to Fragini, 
and made frantic signs to Patuffa to take his place. 
She did so, and would have defended it, as she 
afterwards said, with her last drop of blood. 


PATUFFA 


275 


Signor Fragini, mystified but obedient, tried the 
Guarnerius, sotto voce, and knew at once that the 
beauty of its tone matched the perfection of its 
form. Madame Janeiro, greatly excited and re¬ 
gardless of the circumstances, suddenly called 
out: 

“ Fragini, I have an idea. Let us play the 
slow movement of the Mendelssohn D Sonata. 
It should sound divine on that lovely ’cello and in 
this fine room.” 

She made for the piano in her impetuous way, 
and was on the point of striking a few chords for 
Fragini to tune to, when the Marchese, scared to 
death, prevented her, rather roughly, too. 

“ No, no, I implore not,” he cried, “ I implore 
not.” 

She was much put out and glanced at him as if 
she could have killed him on the spot. She 
flushed with temper, closed the piano with a bang 
and strode like an Amazon to the window, tap¬ 
ping her fingers angrily on the panes, and staring 
fiercely at the oleanders and the pergola beyond. 
Fragini, silently damning Janeiro and every one, 
doubled himself over the Guarnerius, contem¬ 
plated it with ecstasy and again became lost to all 
mundane matters. It was obvious that he had 
no intention of espousing Janeiro’s cause. 

But this was more than Patuffa could bear. 
She did not leave her post at the door, but she 
turned to the poor little Marchese with the fierce¬ 
ness of a tigress, beat with her foot on the floor, 


276 


PATUFFA 


and almost annihilated him as she exclaimed : 

“ How dare you — how dare you ! Do you 
know who she is? She is the great and famous 
pianist, Madame Janeiro. Surely you must know 
that all would give their very ears to have the 
privilege of hearing her so much as touch a single 
note, and you have dared to hound her away from 
the piano.” 

It was the first sign of real spirit Patuffa had 
shown since the day when Peter Long collapsed. 
It was a sure indication that she was coming into 
her own again, in more senses than one. The 
flush on her face, the indignation of her expres¬ 
sion and the tenseness of her attitude were some¬ 
thing to behold. The Marchese stared at her, 
bewildered by her anger; but as soon as he could 
collect his wits, he glanced at Janeiro who was 
still tapping on those panes, flew over to her, 
seized her hand and kissed it. 

“ Madame Janeiro,” he cried, “ forgive me — 
forgive me, but I ask you, how was I to know? I 
have never before had the honor of being in your 
royal presence, though I know your wonderful 
genius and your kind heart. Let me now tell you 
the truth. If the Marchesa, my mother, hears any 
sounds of music, she will descend from her apart¬ 
ment and all is lost. Never would she consent 
that I should sell the Guarnerius. And yet it is 
mine to do as I like with, and with which to pay 
some debts of which she must not know. Never 
must she know of them. So long as the case re- 


PATUFFA 


277 


mains where it now stands — you see it, Madame, 
in its place where it has stood for many years — 
she will remain serene and satisfied. But to know 
it gone — sapristi! That will be a tragedy of 
which I dare not think. You will surely forgive 
me now that I explain, and not think me to be 
the great monster that this so fierce young lady 
takes me to be.” 

The clouds cleared at once from Janeiro’s face. 
She understood all. She laughed, nodded sympa¬ 
thetically, and entered whole-heartedly into the 
conspiracy of silence by putting her finger to her 
lips and tip-toeing across the room. She dearly 
loved a bit of fun. Even the Marchese smiled 
and seemed more at his ease. 

“ Come now, Fragini,” she said, “ wake up 
from your dreams of wood and varnish and do 
your bargaining quickly. Every moment is 
precious. We must hurry off before we bring 
about any real disaster. It is the best we can do 
to atone for our crime of coming. Wake up — 
make haste.” 

Then the usual bargaining, so dear to the Ital¬ 
ian heart, took place, whilst Patuffa still guarded 
the door, watchful, but now mild and assuaged, 
and Madame Janeiro used loving wiles in her ef¬ 
forts to reduce Pom-pom’s yelping to a respec¬ 
table pianissimo. The violoncello case was closed 
and locked and presented its usual appearance of 
fixed innocence. The Marchesa would be able to 
gaze at it in happy ignorance of its emptiness, in 


278 


PATUFFA 


happy ignorance that the Guarnerius had been en¬ 
veloped in Madame Janeiro’s cloak and spirited 
safely into the carriage. And then when his fears 
were at rest, the little Marchese did the honors 
of his home and showed them the loggia and the 
Belvedere and the contadino’s cottage and the 
Chapel, and the garden with its terrace and foun¬ 
tain, and the olive grove beyond. 

So they brought the plunder, as Janeiro called 
it, in triumph to Milan, and she made it clear to 
Signor Fragini that he owed his treasure to 
Patuffa. 

“ When any one shall insult me, Patuffe,” she 
laughed, “ I send a telegram to you. Then you 
come at once, you behave like a fine little tigress, 
and you protect me and put an end to that per¬ 
son’s life — isn’t it so? Bless you, my child. It 
is a piece of luck that does not fall to every one to 
have such a champion. And this horrible and sel¬ 
fish Fragini said not a word. He was only think¬ 
ing of himself and that old piece of wood. And 
I was very angry. I was going to make one of 
my famous scenes. I was trying to control my¬ 
self, because we had no business to be there. But 
my anger was ready for a grand explosion. No 
one can make such a great scene as I can. And 
what would have happened! I should have 
screamed from rage. Pom-pom would have 
screamed also. The Marchesa would have come 
from her room and she too would have screamed 
and chased us all away without the Guarnerius, 


PATUFFA 


279 


and all the poor little frightened son’s debts 
unpaid and nothing left for him except the 
great, great anger of his aged parent Fragini 
should be grateful to you.” 

u I am,” beamed F ragini. “ She shall play 
with me and it at the Monday Popular Concerts 
in London. Not only because she guarded that 
most dangerous door, and was equal to the great 
crisis of one of your scenes, Janeiro, which I could 
never be equal to and do not even try — not only 
that, but because she is a real artist, her own little 
self — and one of us.” 

u Oh, Signor Fragini,” Patuffa cried in an 
ecstasy of joy. 

“ Yes,” he repeated, “ one of us.” 

They were all in splendid form and high spirits 
that evening. They went to Fragini’s home and 
had macaroni and risotto' prepared by him per¬ 
sonally, and put the Guarnerius* through its paces. 
He played them the old Italian Sonatas of Mar¬ 
cello, and Locatelli and Boccherini, and one or 
two of the Bach’s Suites, and the Mendelssohn D 
Sonata with Janeiro, and a Mozart and Bee¬ 
thoven and Brahms Trio with them both. 
Janeiro finished up the festival with an outbreak 
of Chopin. 

She ended with the Barcarolle which Patuffa 
had never heard her play. But she could scarcely 
bear to listen to it. 

It was Mama’s own special favorite — Mama’s 


280 


PATUFFA 


call which had ever summoned Patuffa to her side 
in her childhood days. To reach her on those 
occasions Patuffa. fought the nurse and would 
have fought the whole world. 

It called Patuffa now. She saw Mama, heard 
Mama, was* with Mama. Something stirred in 
her. She must go to Mama, and somehow break 
down that barrier of separation which was not 
any longer to be borne. No, not any longer. 
That was her secret resolve. She sat tense and 
rigid and was not conscious that the music had 
ceased until Madame Janeiro touched her ten¬ 
derly on the face and said: 

“ My child, you must not let music take you 
like this. You will die of it.” 


Ill 

When they got home to their hotel in the early 
hours of the morning, Mama’s letter was await¬ 
ing Patuffa. She read it and stood for a moment 
paralyzed with joy. It was unbelievable. The 
barrier was down. Her home, such as she had 
always known it to be, was hers again — her own 
stronghold to which she had the right and to 
wdiich she could, return, and find Mama there to 
love her and forgive her, no matter what she did 
or what she was’; The measure of her unutterable 
relief was the measure of her desolation of these 
last few months. 


PATUFFA 


281 


A fear flashed through her mind that her 
mother was making a great sacrifice for her sake, 
and a generous doubt whether she ought to be 
allowed to give up Andrew Steyning? But when 
Patuffa re-read the letter, she guessed that the 
heavily underlined words: I am enjoying my free¬ 
dom. I want yon to be quite clear about that y 
were meant to convey a deep significance. 

Well, she would soon know. She would bolt 
straight off to Mama to-morrow. Madame 
Janeiro would understand. She understood 
everything—and at once. That was why her 
playing was inspired. That was why she reached 
the innermost hearts of her audience. The open 
mind — the open heart, the rich receptivity of the 
true artist’s nature. 

She invaded Janeiro’s room and found her 
peacefully playing her usual nightly game of pa¬ 
tience, in a deshabille of Maltese lace every bit as 
luxurious as the Pope’s ceremonial garments. 

“ And what does my protector, my valiant 
champion want? ” Janeiro asked. “Ah, my 
child, I still laugh to think how you nearly tore 
that poor little March.ese to pieces! What a 
splendid little tigress. I say again, it is good to 
know there is a wild animal in the world ready and 
willing to spring on an enemy, and protect one’s 
life. And what is more important — one’s dig¬ 
nity— even one’s false dignity! ” 

Patuffa showed her Mama’s letter. She read 
it, and put it gently back into the girl’s hand. 


282 


PATUFFA 


“ That is a darling Mama you have, Patuffe,” 
she said softly; “ hum&n, with no pretense, no 
pose of parental superiority. I should like to 
know : her. I shall know her.” 

Patuffa closed her eyes. 

“ When you played the Barcarolle, I fre&rd her 
calling me,” she murmured. “ Then I came ijonje 
and found this letter.” 

“ And I have not even thought of the Bar¬ 
carolle for months,” Janeiro said. “ But when I 
had finished the C minor Ballade, I felt somehow 
impelled to play it — the Barcarolle. My fingers 
leapt to it of their own accord.” 

She believed in signs, she told Patuffa, and 
was led by them. She kept a record of all 
psychic interchanges which occurred to her per¬ 
sonally or came to her knowledge. And here 
was a' note-worthy instance of mysterious com¬ 
munication. 

“ Go home, my child,” she said. “ If your 
mother has made a sacrifice for your sake, your 
immediate return would be her rightful reward. 
And if it is not a sacrifice, but a need as great as 
your own, then all the sweeter will be your re¬ 
union. Tell her from me that I have only been 
marking time for her. She only can sound the 
melody. Seize the moment, my tigress. What 
are you murmuring? Some fears that I should 
be thinking you ungrateful? No, of course I 
should not. Or foolish for running away pres¬ 
tissimo from what you call so charmingly the 


PATUFFA 


283 


glorious comradeship of Janeiro and her friends*? 
No, of course not. You are one of us, as Fra- 
gini has told you, and one of us you will remain. 
We can always have glorious times together. We 
will. But to seize hold of a moment that can 
never come again — that is what matters most 
in life. I understand, I know.” 

“ You understand everything without a word 
of explanation,” Patuffa smiled. “ But though 
you know so much, you will never know how you 
have helped me and what you have done for me 
in these days, giving me of your best, without 
stint or measure.” 

“ I seized the moment when a fellow musician 
had lost her way,” Janeiro answered. “ That 
was all. And no one can deny that I have won 
something very good and useful for myself — a 
little tigress to spring on my enemies for ever¬ 
more ! Go home with easy heart, my Patuffa. 
Then I come to London sometime soon, and we 
have more glorious times, or in Vienna, or Paris, 
or Moscow — who knows — or in America, or 
Australia, or anywhere. For the whole world 
belongs to us artists. And Fragini shall see to it 
that you play at the Monday Popular Concerts. 
You leave that to him-—and me. Perhaps we 
all play together, and show the world what great 
things the three Monza culprits can do together. 
Yes?” 

She paused for a moment, and Patuffa watch¬ 
ing her saw the magic change which came over 


284 


PATUFFA 


her countenance. The artist, the woman of the 
world, the great but spoilt darling of the public, 
seemed transformed into a mystic priestess, en¬ 
dowed with the impersonal dignity of High 
Service. 

“ This one thing I say to you, my child,” she 
charged solemnly. “ Cling to your art. It is 
yours. You have the talent, the gift, the very sin¬ 
cere musicianship. You must never again be es¬ 
tranged from it. In trouble, in happiness, in 
folly, in wisdom, in goodness, no matter what you 
do and what you are, you must cling to it. You 
must look upon your art, not only as something 
gracious and beautiful in itself, but as a message 
to the world — music taking up the language 
when words can go no further. Some one said: 

4 Music begins when language fails.’ That is true, 
Patuffe. Go back to work now, and remember 
always the high destiny of true musicians. We 
may not always be worthy of our* mission — alas, 
often we are not worthy. But it is ours to fulfil 
with proud endeavor.” 

Patuffa left for London the next evening. At 
the last moment Madame Janeiro made up her 
mind to go to Paris; and there was a short but 
violent tornado of preparation, and there were 
amazing scenes of impatience and temper followed 
by smiling calm and the stateliness of a throned 
Queen. They traveled together with Pom-pom 


PATUFFA 


285 


as far as Paris, and Janeiro’s last words, as she 
embraced Patuffa, were: 

“ More glorious times, my little tigress, and 
cling to your art. No one can take that from 
you except you yourself.” 


CHAPTER IX 


M AMA had returned from Madame 
Tcharushin’s rooms tired and low-spir¬ 
ited. She sat embroidering and thinking. 
She was free, and glad to be free, but she was 
lonely. Yet, was not every one lonely? Madame 
t Tcharushin, busy with all her engrossing work 
and the dedication of her energies on behalf of 
Russia, was at heart lonely. She had said so, 
to-day, quite frankly. Perhaps it was because she 
had been heartbroken over the failure of one of 
her comrades to escape from the Akatui prisons. 
But there it was. Think of it — even Pat, Pat 
taken up heart and soul with her country’s cause 
— Pat weighted with the spiritual burden of all 
her fellow exiles who came to her for comfort, 
courage, inspiration, guidance — Pat who ap¬ 
peared to have reached a rarefied altitude of im¬ 
personality, where one would have thought lone¬ 
liness could not survive. 

But in weakness, in illness, in discouragement, 
secrets leak out. 

One might fill one’s life with activities for 

causes, for individual people, for one’s family, for 

oneself, or with ambitions, personal happiness, 

286 




PATUFFA 


287 


evil deeds, unworthy deeds, religion, learning, 
philosophy, art, music, science — and yet at heart 
be lonely if one paused to think. What did. it all 
mean? 

Looking back over her own life, she knew she 
had always been more or less lonely. As a child 
certainly. As a girl not so much, perhaps. But 
as a married woman, undoubtedly. And if she 
had married Steyning, she was sure now that no 
love he could have given her would have lessened 
the loneliness of being cut off from intimate 
friendship between herself and her children. She 
had proved that by her fretting over Patuffa’s 
silent withdrawal. 

She remembered that when Andrew first be¬ 
gan to show signs of interest in her, she had had 
the impulse to discourage him, not because she 
was not attracted towards him, but because of 
claims which were dear to her, and the settled 
belief that her life was not her own. Marrying 
again had seemed a sheer impossibility, something 
which did not come within the scope of thoughts. 
What made her change? What made her sud¬ 
denly capitulate and allow her to be carried away 
by a passionate love for him and a desperate need 
of him? Was it desire only? Was it the pros¬ 
pect of ordered serenity, and prosperous circum¬ 
stance? Or was it all three? Well, whatever 
the driving force, it was expended, and she was 

free from its power, free to be lonely in her own 

« 

way, if need be — in, an empty house — with 


288 


PATUFFA 


rooms ready and waiting for the boys who would 
always be absent — with Patuffa’s room, sweet 
with freshly-cut flowers — yellow narcissus, her 
favorites, standing as sentinels on her dressing- 
table, and the very latest portrait of Brahms 
hanging over her bed, and the picture of 
Stradivarius in his workshop> which she had al¬ 
ways coveted, hanging over the mantelpiece. An¬ 
other surprise for her was an engraving of 
Danhauser’s famous picture of Liszt at the Piano f 
with Victor Hugo, Dumas, George Sand, Ros¬ 
sini and Paganini grouped around him, and the 
Countess D’Agoult at his feet. And yet another 
was Vidals’ noble work, Les Instruments a Archet. 
And on her writing-table lay the Correspondence 
between Liszt and Wagner w'hich Chummy had 
said she must possess some time, together with 
six pieces of resin, a new string box, some crystal¬ 
lized ginger from Buzzard’s, and a‘ Liberty silk 
handkerchief to wrap her violin in — in case . . . 

But would she return? Would she be so taken 
up with Madame Janeiro that she would not care 
much whether Mama were free or not? Would 
the call of her career in London and new chances 
daily cropping up, which would have thrilled her 
before Stefansky’s death and before the tragedy 
of her love affair in Rome, stir her or leave her 
apathetic and indifferent? Would she be joyous 
and excited at the news that there was to be no 
change in her home life, no change except greater 
happiness, greater devotion, or had she passed on 


P A T U F F A 289 

from that love-of-home phase, been pushed on by 
Mama herself? 

Mama wondered, anxiously, as she filled in the 
center of a sweet pink anemone with palest green 
silk. Her eyes were a little dim. 

Suddenly there was the sound of a hansom. 
There was a violent ringing at the bell. 

Only one person in the whole world rang like 
that. 

Mama flung away her work, flew downstairs, 
and gathered Patuffa to her heart. 


CHAPTER X 


T HE news of Mama’s jilting of Andrew 
Steyning and Patuffa’s return to her home 
came as welcome tidings to Chummy and 
Irene, still lingering in Rome. Chummy, who had 
always had a whole-hearted admiration and re¬ 
spect for Mama, thought she had been a “ bit of 
a fool ” lately, and was glad she had come to her 
senses and would continue to fulfil her own re¬ 
sponsibilities. He was aging rapidly, and had 
arrived at the point when he needed peace and 
quietness in his daily life. 

It was true v that he was more inured than most 
people to crises brought about by excitable and 
stormy personalities, and, like Mama, would 
probably have been bored without a few disinte¬ 
grating happenings. But Patuffa’s affair with 
poor Peter Long had been too much for him. He 
would have adhered willingly to his plan of re¬ 
ceiving her as a permanent member of Headquar¬ 
ters. If there were no other home for this child, 
whom he had always loved, then Headquarters 
must be her home where she had the right of 
welcome, and the right to cause any number of in¬ 
convenient mental, moral and spiritual upheavals. 
But the canceling of the arrangement eased him, 

and he secretly said: “ God be thanked! ” 

290 


PATUFFA 


291 


And then there was Irene. Irene would have 
fallen in with anything that Chummy suggested. 
If he had decided to house half a dozen musi¬ 
cians permanently, she would have accepted con¬ 
ditions in her quiet, philosophical way, and kept 
things as easy and stable as circumstances al¬ 
lowed. Every one who came to the house felt her 
steadying influence. Studious, but not over book¬ 
ish, quiet, but not irritatingly tranquil, and always 
curiously attracted by excitable natures, she 
earned every one’s gratitude for her sympathy 
and indulgence. 

She had loved all the strange, gifted people 
who had come to Headquarters ever since her 
early childhood: pianists and violinists and sing¬ 
ers and organists and composers — people who 
had made great successes — people who had 
faded away into failure — most of them either 
in the height of happiness or in the depths 
of depression — some of them bitter and angry 
and jealous, and others of a sweetness of disposi¬ 
tion which no success or failure could ever poison. 

Whatever they were, however erratic in their 
ways or views, she had always hero-worshiped 
them, because she had inherited from her father 
the belief that music was something more than an 
art: it was a sacred mission, above the power of 
words in its influence on the spiritual side of man’s 
nature. 

But she would not have chosen that they should 
always be at Headquarters. In the case of 


292 


PATUFFA 


Patuffa, of course, it was different. Patuffa was 
part of the family, and belonged to Chummy and 
herself. Yet even Patuffa might have proved too 
much of a good thing as a fixed star. Not for 
herself. She was quite clear about that. She was 
so accustomed to Patuffa’s temperament that it 
had scarcely any disturbing effect on her mind or 
her work. But she did have her doubts whether 
that continuous presence in the house would be 
good for Chummy; and these doubts had been 
justified by the events of these last weeks. Even 
now her father’s ashen face testified to the in¬ 
road which had been made on his nervous system. 
So Irene also said secretly: “God be thanked,” 
and afterwards called herself a brute. 

She wrote in her diary: 

“ Everybody seems to be recovering from 
everybody quite comfortably: Patuffa from Peter 
Long; Madame Mama from Steyning; Chummy 
from Janeiro; myself from a secret — shall I say 
‘ enthusiasm ’ for our fascinating guide on the 
Palatine? What a mercy! We can now settle 
down and enjoy Rome with unencumbered 
hearts.” 

They turned with added zest to the joys and 
wonders awaiting them. They haunted the 
Forum, and spent hours on the Palatine Hill 
where, from that splendid vantage ground, his¬ 
tory rose up for them like a great surging sea. 
Below, the Forum with all its memories of repub- 


PATUFFA 


293 


lican glory, around the ruined palaces and temples 
of Augustus and his successors, beyond, the blue 
line of the Sabine Mountains, and southwards the 
Alban Hills. Here, the Via Sacra and there the 
Arch of Titus, and the Colosseum, rising in its 
vastness of majesty, with the blue sky piercing its 
empty windows. 

They were never tired of the Appian Way and 
the Campagna, into which they penetrated more 
and more. They loved it caught in sapphire light, 
idealized in transparent haze. This great solemn 
golden desert held them ever in silent rapture. 
Glimpses of the blue hills in the distance, emerald 
green patches of lonely farms, ruined splendors, 
grazing cattle, faint visions of the sea beyond, 
glories of the sky merging into the grandeur of 
the plain — and Rome, or the memory of Rome 
beckoning from afar — each compelling picture 
made its own claim and brought its own thoughts 
to these two eager and earnest wayfarers, with 
minds attuned and sight adjusted to the meaning 
of the Past. 

But though they sought these solitudes, they 
did not desert their favorite haunts in the City, 
and the little trattoria in the Campo di fiori lured 
them always on market day. The virtuoso of the 
mandolin turned up with equal faithfulness to 
receive a virtuoso’s rightful handsome fee! They 
rejoiced in the bright flowers in the streets, 
watched with interest the picturesque artists’ 
models foregathering in the Piazza di Spagna, 


294 P A T U F F A 

and the boys from the Seminaries destined for the 
priesthood. 

They stood in reverent silence by Keats’ grave 
and “ heard the soft lute fingered muses chanting 
near.” They lingered on the steps of the Trinita 
del Monte and looked towards the house where 
the poet breathed his last in faithful Severn’s 
arms. They sat quietly in the churches and took 
note of the life there, the ways of the priests, the 
ways of the visitors, and the coming and going of 
the worshipers. 

They visited the crypt of St. Peter’s many 
times, and Irene reaped a rich harvest of Papal 
Tombs. They sought out friends at the British 
School of Archaeology w T ho eased their brains over 
the history of the excavations in far-off and mod¬ 
ern times. They read Italian with an old Pro¬ 
fessor who lived in a house adjoining the Ara 
Coeli, and Chummy reveled in the Inferno to his 
heart’s content. 

By some special chance they were present at the 
private ceremony when the Pope bestowed the 
birettas on the new Cardinals and gave an ad¬ 
dress. And the next morning they availed them¬ 
selves of the Permesso per assistore al passaggio 
di Sua Santita nella Sala Ducale in occasione del 
Pubblico Concistoro. Thus, close at hand, they 
witnessed the procession when the Pope was car¬ 
ried in his Sedia Gestatoria in all his pomp from 
the Sala Ducale to the Sala Regia — a never-to- 
be-forgotten sight of Swiss and Papal Guards 


PATUFFA 


295 


and prelates innumerable, of Canons and Mon¬ 
signori and red Cardinals with their suites, and 
the Guardia Nobile, and officials in resplendent 
attire, and then the Pope, with hand upraised, 
blessing from right to left with the Fisherman’s 
Ring. 

But in all that glory of worldly circumstance 
where was Jesus of Nazareth? Was it He who 
was heralded by the fanfare from the silver trum¬ 
pets? Did He, an Invisible Presence, pass with 
soft tread, canopied by those great white plumes? 

They became converts to St. Peter’s and learnt 
to love it for its very vastness. The shock of first 
impression given by its immensity wore into awe. 
The jarring details in its interior were lost in the 
harmony and grandeur of its proportions. They 
saw in it the outward and visible sign of far- 
reaching and abiding influence in the sway of 
Rome transmuted from temporal triumph into a 
spiritual ascendancy kept intact through the cen¬ 
turies. The vast domes, its huge pillars, its 
spreading arches haunted them with the beauty 
of free space. 

Yet they did not realize its true symbolism un¬ 
til on Palm Sunday at the Consecration of Palms 
they saw it peopled with reverent worshipers 
and passing strangers, old and young, rich and 
poor, great personages and peasants of no ac¬ 
count, and all of equal right and equal value, and 
no one out of place because it was the home of 
all. 


296 


PATUFFA 


The secret of the Church of Rome. To ex¬ 
clude no one of the faith, not even by an unseen 
barrier. To inculcate the habit of worship and 
encourage participation from the earliest years of 
a child’s life. So that the tiniest tot, kneeling con¬ 
fidently before the priest and being touched on 
the head with a rod as a sign of blessing, with a 
kindness and an indulgence and almost a sense of 
humor in the action, was in very truth gathered 
beneath the mantle of the Church not only in ab¬ 
stract theory, but in actual practise. 

Long talks they had about Paganism and Chris¬ 
tianity, about the Church of Rome and the Protes¬ 
tant Faith with its endless sects and differentia¬ 
tion. They contrasted the Early Faith with its 
garish materialistic development. They conjured 
up visions of the Christians of old celebrating in, 
peril and secrecy their simple services in the Cata¬ 
combs. They marveled the more at the pomp 
and splendor which had sprung from spiritual 
sources. Chummy had no good word for Popes 
or Archbishops or any prelates of high or low 
degree. 

“ Let the earth swallow them up,” he said, 
u and the sooner the better. Then we can begin 
again.” 

“ Isn’t that intolerance in its most acute 
form?” chided Irene. “Are you going to issue 
an Edict to suppress not only one faith, but all 
faiths? ” 

“ Not the faiths, but the men who make a 


PATUFFA 297 

mockery of their meaning,” he answered, with a 
fierceness worthy of Patuffa. 

So they exchanged thoughts and shared reflec¬ 
tions in a companionship in which the personal 
happiness and understanding of years were 
blended with a deep love of everything that was 
beautiful in the wonders of nature and the 
achievements of man. They were never tired of 
being together. Although their friends and ac¬ 
quaintances had ever meant a great deal to them, 
and the concerns of others took up a large part 
of their generous lives, yet they were happiest 
alone and in closest intercourse with each other, 
bound together, but free. With Chummy it was 
impossible not to be free. His nature exacted no 
bondage, and made no imperious demands. Old 
age, if anything, added to his unselfishness and 
his greatness of heart and spirit. 

One morning, when they were lingering in the 
Colosseum, he said to her: 

“ My dear child, it is your birthday in a few 
days, and I shall present you as usual with one of 
the books which I want myself — the eleven vol¬ 
umes of Gregorovius’s History of the City of 
Rome in the Middle Ages! An excellent and con¬ 
science-easing manner of indulging my own 
fancies! If you remember, I have been pursuing 
this method of generosity ever since you were a 
little scholar of nine years old. And now you are 
going to be twenty-four. Well, all I can say is 
that twenty-four is a huge age. Now listen. 


298 


PATUFFA 


Could you not see your way to have a love affair 
or two for practise and then fall seriously into 
love with some one? I don’t mind who it is, pro¬ 
vided it isn’t an Archbishop, and I’d rather it 
wasn’t a second Peter Long. But you ought not to 
be imprisoned permanently with a prehistoric 
parent. There are times when I think I should 
feel very happy to see you fixed up with a suitable 
husband, who would not interfere with your ca¬ 
reer— a scholar, of course, some one knowing 
all the dead and living languages and all the dia¬ 
lects of the world. No one else would suffice, 
I’m sure. Could you not excavate such a buried 
treasure and give me that bit of satisfaction be¬ 
fore I depart? Very kindly try.” 

She laughed and put her arm through his. 

“ When I excavate some one like you, 
Chummy,” she said, u then there might be some 
temptation.” 


PART III 



1 





CHAPTER I 


I 

P ATUFFA took up her life again with re¬ 
doubled enthusiasm. Her companionship 
with Janeiro had restored her to the world 
where she belonged, and her old intimacy with 
Mama was renewed tenfold. Patuffa jeweled it 
with a far greater consideration shown in a dozen 
ways, probably out of relief and gratitude in hav¬ 
ing recovered the territory which until the advent 
of Steyning had ever been undisputedly hers, and 
without which she had been a homeless, wander¬ 
ing spirit. Perhaps also she had realized that, 
great and wonderful though Janeiro was, her 
temperament was at times too demanding for 
those associated with her, and that this side of 
her rich nature was not the best one for close imi¬ 
tation. Yet if any one had dared to make even a 
humble hint to this effect, Patuffa w 7 ould have 
pounced relentlessly on the foe. 

It was possible that she would not continue long 
in her new role, but meantime her gentleness and 
graciousness in her home life had the result of 
consigning Andrew Steyning to shamefully remote 
regions in Mama’s remembrance, and confirmed 

her in the wisdom of her decision, for his sake as 

301 


302 


PATUFFA 


well as hers. It was the least that Patuffa could 
do to give her mother happiness, and she gave it 
in overflowing measure and became sweetened in 
the process. They were able to thresh every¬ 
thing out: the episode of Steyning, the episode of 
Peter Long. Mama’s simple frankness about her¬ 
self won equal frankness and added camaraderie 
from Patuffa, and their confidences were a relief 
and comfort to them both. Many a mother and 
many a daughter might well have envied the qual¬ 
ity of their friendship in which humorous under¬ 
standing of their personal characteristics was 
knitted to a tender compassionateness towards the 
sufferings of spirit. 

When Patuffa learned of the ladder in Mama’s 
dream, she laughed with glee and said: 

“ I should have brought it soon enough if I’d 
found out you were being bored, Mama, dar¬ 
ling. You should have escaped somehow! ” 

And when the Mother asked her anxiously 
whether her grief were abating in any degree, 
however slight, she said that she could not pretend 
that Peter Long was possessing her thoughts with 
the same acuteness as at first, but that she would 
always hold him in a sacred corner of her heart, 
and that she was weaving her love, her regret, 
her pity, her joy, her ecstasy, her suffering into 
her music. 

“ So Peter will abide with me always as part 
of my life,” she said quite simply. 

Her music had garnered new riches from this 


PATUFFA 


303 


strange experience at Rome. Her fervor was 
more impassioned, and she had gained in depth 
and breadth of expression. Temperament, that 
mysterious quality never to be attained by prac¬ 
tise, had found fresh sources of inspiration. 
Peter Long, tragic instrument of Fate, had done 
his appointed work for little Patuffa. 

But on one occasion, in the early days of her 
return, the remembrance of him was her undoing. 
She was playing Bach’s B Minor Sonata when 
her memory suddenly left her and her mind be¬ 
came a blank. For there rose before her a vision 
of the courtyard of the. Vestal Virgins and Peter 
Long looking up at her from his sketchbook. She 
saw his sunny smile, heard his voice, felt the charm 
of his presence. She stood as one paralyzed; 
then recovering her vitality, attempted to go on 
— and failed. She shook her head and faced 
the audience in mute appeal whilst some one 
rushed on the platform with the music. And even 
then it was only with great effort that she got 
through her ordeal. But she emerged trium¬ 
phantly, and in the encore on which the audience 
insisted, probably for the sake of showing sym¬ 
pathy with her contretemps, Patuffa eclipsed her¬ 
self and played down her defeat. But she felt 
disgraced, and determined that never again would 
she lose control of herself. And probably the 
very incident itself helped her to pass more surely 

on her way. 

Keble was present at this Concert and was 


304 


PATUFFA 


deeply concerned at her discomfiture. He did 
something he had never ventured on before, and 
sought her in the artists’ room. Her face bright¬ 
ened when she saw him, and she said: 

“ Well, Keble, and what do you think of my 
glorious disaster? ” 

“ I’m most awfully sorry, Patuffa,” he said 
kindly. “ But you retrieved yourself in the Pa¬ 
ganini Study — indeed you did.” 

She shook her head. 

“ Nothing could make up,” she said grimly. 
“ I mustn’t begin doing that sort of thing. It’s 
unnerving— fatal.” 

“ Let me drive you home,” he said, “ if it 
wouldn’t bore you too hugely. It’s monstrous 
that you should have any reverses.” 

She shrugged her shoulders and said: 

“ Good for me, I suppose that moralists would 
say. But beastly all the same. But I must not 
let this particular sort of reverse happen again. 
That is very clear to me.” 

She seemed glad for once to be taken charge 
of, and let Keble pack up her fiddle and carry it. 
In the hansom she leaned back listlessly and was 
silent. 

“What happened to you?” Keble asked at 
last. 

She hesitated a moment and then said: 

“ Would you like me to tell you exactly what 
happened to me? I think I should like to tell 
you if — if you wouldn’t mind.” 


PATUFFA 


305 


“Tell me anything you wish, Patuffa,” he an¬ 
swered, wondering at her. 

Then she told him in a few simple words. It 
was the first time that the subject of Peter Long 
had been mentioned between them. Not by a 
word, not by a sign, had Keble shown that he 
knew the story, though it was always in his re¬ 
membrance. 

It intruded on him in the Courts, in his cham¬ 
bers in Fountain Court, in his rooms in Jermyn 
Street. He thought of it as he sat alone and 
watched the smoke from his pipe curling round 
his head. It haunted him when he was preparing 
his defense in a sensational murder case for which 
he had been briefed. He drove it from him, 
yet back it came, worrying him vaguely when his 
mind was fixed on his task, disturbing him wholly 
when he had relaxed from mental tension. But 
for that engrossing trial of Martha Cope for 
the murder of her husband, Keble would have 
suffered tenfold more over the definite knowl¬ 
edge that Patuffa, his little Patuffa, had pas¬ 
sionate love to give in a direction not his. 

H is salvation was that he had to pit his brains 
against one of the most brilliant Q.C.s. If he 
succeeded in establishing this woman’s innocence 
of which he was convinced, although there were 
damaging circumstances of great asset to the 
prosecution, he would score a triumph which 
would advance his position enormously in the 
arena of legal fame. 


306 


PATUFFA 


So he was being helped through a difficult time 
of personal sadness by zeal on behalf of the ac¬ 
cused, and by ambition for ambition’s sake — and 
Patuffa’s. For always at the back of his brain 
remained the fixed belief that one day his little 
love would know that she was his and his only. 
Even now, as he listened, with outward calm, 
but with an inner fire of longing, to her frank 
confession of vain and thwarted love, his 
thoughts and hopes leaped forward to the hour 
for which he was waiting and working. 

She ended with: 

“ So now you know why my memory failed me 
to-night, old Keble. Have I pained you too 
greatly by pouring out? I suppose I have.” 

“ You have pained me and eased me,” he said. 
“ Both. I have been so sorry for you. You will 
never know how sorry.” 

She made no comment on his words, but later 
she said: 

“ You have been an awful brick since my re¬ 
turn, Keble. You have helped me by your kind 
pretense of going on as if nothing had happened.” 

“ You have given me no right to behave dif¬ 
ferently,” he said. “ Because I choose to con¬ 
sider myself pledged to you, that is no reason 
why I should demand that you should consider 
yourself pledged to me.” 

“ No, that’s very true,” she said. “ But all the 
same, you’ve been a good steady old friend in 
need — a sort of . . .” 


PATUFFA 


307 


She added with half a laugh: 

“ I believe I was going to say ‘ rock.’ ” 

“ Well, let us hope it is a ‘ blasted ’ rock,” he 
smiled. 

They were nearing her home when he suddenly 
turned towards her and said: 

“ There is one thing I wanted to ask you, Pa- 
tuffa, one thing I wanted to do for you if it would 
be of any comfort to you. I should not have 
dared to ask you if you had not spoken to me 
yourself about — about Peter Long. But I have 
had it in my mind these many days. It is this. 
Would you like me to — to go and see — and see 
that all is well — as well as can be — with him? ” 

There was a moment of painful silence, and 
then Patuffa answered in a low voice: 

“ No, Keble, the page is turned over, and I’ve 
begun another chapter. It wouldn’t be honest 
to say I haven’t. But it was like you to offer — 
good, kind old Keble.” 

He left her at her home and went on his way 
comforted and uplifted. 

“ I know how to wait,” he said several time^ 
aloud. 


II 

Keble gained his case, and not only had the joy 
of vindicating an innocent woman, but the cer¬ 
tainty of knowing that he had “ arrived.” His 
speech for the defense was considered a master- 


308 


PATUFFA 


piece, and he received congratulations from all 
sides. The Counsel for the prosecution paid him 
a handsome tribute, shook hands with him warmly 
and called him “ a dangerous opponent.” 

But nothing pleased Cousin Keble more than a 
telegram sent to his chambers by Patuffa who 
was playing at Worcester. She wired: 

i( My turn now to congratulate old Keble . My 
turn now to cut out your notices and stick them in 
a pocketbook . Quite evident England won’t have 
long to wait.” 

He smiled over it a long time, and then put it 
in his pocketbook. Then he sent the following 
acknowledgment: 

“ Thanks awfully. Feeling elated and master¬ 
ful. Found this in a book yesterday. Among 
the accounts of King Henry VII, Nov. 2, 1495, 
is the item: 1 For a womane that singeth with a 
fiddle two shillings.’ Hope you are singing your 
best.” 

Yes, she was singing her best that day. She 
was leading the Brahms Quartet in B Flat Major 
and Beethoven’s C Major with its divine Andante, 
and she played with a devotion and a wealth of 
light and shade that betokened an absolute mas¬ 
tery of these most noble works. 

George Hendered chanced to be in Worcester, 
and he came to hear her, and strolled into the 
artists’ room afterwards. He was interested and 


PATUFFA 


309 


moved as before by her personality. She had 
often intruded on his thoughts since that morn¬ 
ing when she had broken in on him in his office 
and surprised him by her fierce, imperious demand 
on behalf of some one other than herself. So 
free she had seemed to him then, and free she 
seemed now, like a bird on its flight through 
space, but with steadier, surer power of soaring. 

“ Well,” he said, “ you’re going strong, little 
woman. You’re going to make a splendid quartet 
player. Spacious. Leisured. Dashing. Poised. 
Thinking only of the music. And unselfish, 
too.” 

She flushed with pleasure at his praise. 

u I should love to make a mark in quartet play¬ 
ing,” she said. “ And I intend to have a try. It 
was one of the last things Stefansky said to me.” 

“ Ah,” he said kindly. “Stefansky—that 
great artist to whom you gave his last and glorious 
chance.” 

“ You gave it,” she said eagerly. “ You kept 
your word and gave it.” 

“ Then let us say we gave it together,” he re¬ 
turned. “ We won’t fight over that. But what 
we might fight over was your lapse of memory 
the other week. That will never do. If you once 
begin that sort of game, you’re lost. What was 
the matter? Over-practising, sudden attack of 
nerves — what was it? You don’t look much 
of a Hercules, you know. You must be careful.” 

“ I’m perfectly strong, thank you,” she said 


310 


PATUFFA 


abruptly. “ I never have anything the matter 
with me — except toothache.” 

He laughed and said: 

“Was it toothache then? ” 

“ No, it was not toothache,” she answered 
smiling, but in a firm tone of voice which implied 
that Hendered was to mind his own business. 
“ But it is not likely to occur again. I’ve quite 
made up my mind about that.” 

“ Ah, well, if you’ve made up your mind, that 
will be all right, I’m sure,” he said good- 
naturedly. 

And he did not press inquiry further, as he 
probably would have done with many another 
woman, with a bit of common chaff about her be¬ 
ing in love and why wasn’t it with him, and so on, 
and so on. There was something about Patuffa 
which commanded this man’s respect and more 
than his respect. 

When he left her, he thought again of the early 
spring and fresh young green leaves and the coun¬ 
tryside where he was born and bred and the brook 
which passed through his village, strong and lusty 
in the winter months, calm and shining in the 
summer days. Almost he saw the reflections in 
its sweet pure waters. Almost he wished himself 
young again, to shape his life differently and have 
love in all its beauty to offer to little Patuffa 
Rendham. Then again Hendered laughed at him¬ 
self and called himself a fool. 

But his visit and his reference to her lapse of 


PATUFFA 


311 


memory helped her not a little. When she got 
home, she took out her Roman sketchbook which 
she had been secretly treasuring and over which 
she had pored many a time, with unshed tears, 
tore up the pages slowly, one by one, and burnt 
them. She watched them curl up into blackened 
fragments, stood grim and tense for a while, and 
then took out Stefansky’s Stradivari, turned it 
over and held it out in front of her. 

“ All, or nothing,” she said. 


Ill 

After this Patuffa passed on with firm footsteps. 
She had a terror of losing her memory again, and 
having once received a definite warning, she gath¬ 
ered herself together with all the stubbornness of 
which she was capable and spent her forces on 
her music only. She practised with increased dili¬ 
gence and allowed herself very little relaxation 
from hard study. 

Probably only executants themselves know the 
incessant work and fatigue involved in the preser¬ 
vation of their technique, zealous safeguarding of 
which alone liberates them for the high function 
of interpreter. But she was extraordinarily 
strong and wiry; and as her spirits came back to 
her in the varied interests of her life, she was 
helped by her natural buoyancy, and showed few 
traces of stress and strain. Beautiful Patuffa 


312 


PATUFFA 


could never be; but the glow of happiness on her 
face, the brightness in her eyes, the secret inner 
fire of her temperament lent her an elusive love¬ 
liness which many women might well have envied. 

Round about that time the London Symphony 
Concerts were started and she made a successful 
appearance at one of them, playing the Saint- 
Saens Concerto in B Minor, and Paganini’s 
Twentieth Caprice. She had many engagements 
both in London and the Provinces, a few private 
ones which she detested, and two or three pupils 
whom she bullied. She had no patience for teach¬ 
ing, and nearly always ended by being rude to her 
victims, rich or not rich. For at least snobbery 
formed no part of her equipment. The same 
day that she reduced a Miss Farnham from Put¬ 
ney to tears, she nearly boxed the ears of a young 
Countess, said she had the brain of a rabbit and 
as much dexterity on the violin as an elephant 
at the Zoo. Yet they all liked her. She was 
so direct and dashing that once the shock of her 
abruptness over, they became attached to her per¬ 
sonally, adored her music, went to the concerts 
at which she played, and plied her with bouquets 
and boxes of chocolates, some of which found 
their way to Coptic Street to help on Madame 
Tcharushin’s convalescence which was a very slow 
affair: 

Madame Pat always became invigorated by the 
thought of Patuffa’s pupils. 

“ Not for one hundred pounds would I have a 


PATUFFA 


313 


lesson from you, Patuffska,” she.laughed one day. 
u Never should I be sure that you would not tear 
out my hair, or pull out a tooth, or reduce my 
skull to pulp. Very brave people do I call your 
poor pupils. The courage of the most intr'epid 
explorers in the world is as nothing compared with 
theirs. They should be put on the Roll of Honor. 
Whom have you been bullying to-day, I wonder? 
Some one rich and grand, since the chocolates are 
rich and grand. Well, well, I eat them with 
pleasure, to make myself fat in the w^ay Marionska 
seems to wish.” 

“ Not many signs of that,” Patuffa said. u You 
don’t throw oft your illness, Pat. You don ? t give 
yourself a chance. Why don’t you let Mama take 
you to the sea ? You must know we are all dying 
to do something for you. When the season is 
over, and my coast is clear from concerts and 
boring pupils whom I love so much, couldn’t we 
all go away together and make you forget propa¬ 
ganda and such like? Do you remember how I 
used to call it ‘ progapanda ’ as a child? I know 
I was awfully proud of that mouthful. I used to 
lie awake and rehearse it at nights, practising it 
about as many times as I do a difficult pas¬ 
sage nowadays. A good thing I didn’t know 
it was all wrong. I should have been heart¬ 
broken.” 

“ A good thing we don’t know everything,” 
said Madame Pat. “We should never get for¬ 
ward at all, not even in the wrong direction. Any 


314 PATUFFA 

direction is better than no direction — what think 
you ? ” 

“ Do come away,” Patuffa urged. “ If you 
don’t want to leave Father Kuprianoff, we could 
take him too. I’ve got plenty of money. All 
the money coming in, too, from my rich pupils 
whom you say I bully. I suppose I do bully them 
a bit! But I’ve got to bully some one — haven’t 
I? And Mama is out of the question now.” 

“ You make her very happy, my child,” Ma¬ 
dame Tcharushin said gently. “ It is a long time 
since I have seen her so joyous.” 

“ You are quite certain she doesn’t regret hav¬ 
ing jilted Steyning? ” Patuffa asked. 

“ Yes, I’m quite sure of that;” Madame an¬ 
swered. “ Marionska could not pretend if she 
wanted to do so. Nothing of an actress is Mama. 
I am certain she is huggingher freedom in a close 
embrace. But we behaved badly — you and I. 
Being only human beings we behaved exceedingly 
badly—I with all my teasings and you with all 
your tempers. Yet I am glad we conducted our¬ 
selves like human beings, and not like angels with 
white or dove-colored wings. And now if the 
Steyning man would kindly oblige me by marry¬ 
ing his housekeeper, that would be the finishing 
touch to the picture. For I have prophesied this, 
Patuffe, and no one has the right to disappoint 
me in my so delicate health.” 

Patuffa laughed. 

“You make fun of your illness,” she said. 


PATUFFA 


315 


“ But you do need a change badly. I believe 
Margate would do you good. You’ll go off into 
consumption or something of that sort if you’re 
not careful, and what use would you be to Russia 
then? Or you’ll die, and what should we do? 
I couldn’t begin to think of life without you.” 

“ You needn’t,” Madame returned gaily. 
“ Never shall I go into the consumptions. Never 
shall I die. I should scorn to do anything so 
ridiculous. But as for taking a change from 
Coptic Street and going to Margate — never 
could I think of such a thing, Patuffe. Very gen¬ 
erous of you about the money which you will 
never get from your so rich pupils. The rich 
don’t pay — do they? I always have thought 
they only owed. But I thank you, my little com¬ 
rade. I know you w’ould give your last penny to 
me or any one. But I tell you, what would cure 
me, would be to get back to Russia and face 
dangers once more. Then I should ‘ spring.’ 
Then I should recover my strength and my youth. 
And very soon that is what I intend to do. But 
that is a secret between you and me. Mama must 
not know my plans. She would fret and have 
dreams of me hanging by the neck.” 

“And shouldn’t I fret?” Patuffa asked trucu¬ 
lently. 

“ No, my child, you would not fret,” she an¬ 
swered. “ You w^ould weave me into your music 
as you have woven other griefs — yes — Patuffe 
— I know — though we do not talk about it—■ 


316 


PATUFFA 


and you would send me sound-waves of courage 
which would reach me and make me feel as bold 
and brave as your pupils.” 

And at that moment Zebrikoff and Serge Mo- 
shinski and Tatiana Kroshinskaya arrived to tell 
their comrade news of the latest tyranny which 
had been started against Russian Dissenters. 
Their children were being kidnapped and brought 
up in the Russian Established Church; and one of 
the latest victims of this tragedy was Madame 
Tcharushin’s friend, Prince Khilkoff, who had 
been exiled to the Trans Caucasus for distributing 
his estates amongst the peasants and thus disturb¬ 
ing their minds. Pobiedonostzeff, the Procurator 
of the Holy Synod, was at the height of his power 
and he had organized a war of extermination 
against all Nonconformists. Prince and Princess 
Khilkoff were ruthlessly deprived of their chil¬ 
dren. Moshinski had received a heart-broken 
letter from the mother which he read aloud in 
faltering tones. It was Greek to Patuffa, but 
what was not Greek was his strong emotion, his 
indignation, his clenched fist, the heaving of his 
shoulders. He sank into Kuprianoff’s chair, and 
covered his face with his hands. 

But Madame Tcharushin sprang up re-born, 
transformed, her strange youthfulness restored to 
her as if by magic. 

“ And you ask me to go for a peaceful change 
to Margate,” she said defiantly to Patuffa. 
“ How dare you ask me to go for a peaceful 


PATUFFA 


317 


change? And how dare I stay here, safe and 
secure and amusing myself by being ill when all 
these tragic things are happening in my country? ” 

Up and down the room she paced like a caged 
tigress. The light of battle was in her eyes. The 
raging fire of the revolutionary spirit was reflected 
on her countenance. From her very atmosphere 
emanated grim determination, stern stubbornness, 
relentless purpose, fierce patriotism, unswerving 
devotion to the cause, reckless sacrifice of self. 

Patuffa, receptive to all impressions, was tre¬ 
mendously stirred and excited by her godmother’s 
outbreak and by the answering agitation of her 
comrades, especially of Tatiana Kroshinskaya, the 
anarchist dreaded by Mama. With heart and 
brain almost bursting from sympathy and wonder 
and excitement and rebellion, she went home, took 
out her violin and found expression to her feel¬ 
ing and relief from them, in an outpouring of wild 
improvisation. Mama heard it and was almost 
frightened until she remembered that Patuffa had 
been spending the afternoon at Coptic Street, not 
only with Madame Tcharushin, but with some of 
the other revolutionaries, including Tatiana Kro¬ 
shinskaya. 

“ What a mercy she can work it off in her mu¬ 
sic,” thought Mama. “ Otherwise we should per¬ 
haps have her rushing off to Russia to blow up 
the Czar.” 

When the season came to an end, she and 


318 


PATUFFA 


Mama went off with their knapsacks for a tramp 
in the Lake Country, to join Chummy and Irene 
finally in the wild regions of Borrowdale. Keble 
sought the Dolomites. Madame Tcharushin 
traveled to Zurich, to hatch plots with her com¬ 
patriots exiled there. 


CHAPTER II 


I N the autumn came Madame Janeiro, with 
her maid and Pom-pom, and the glorious 
days which she had promised to Patuffa in 
Milan were realized beyond all expectation. In 
spite of concerts, society engagements, homage 
from all sides, vagaries, scenes, a command per¬ 
formance before Queen Victoria, and constant de¬ 
mands on her kindness and her time, she found 
plenty of leisure for Patuffa, for whom she had 
taken a real affection, and whose interests she 
bore in mind at every opportunity. When there 
was not any opportunity, she made it, and her in¬ 
fluence, of course, was far-reaching and most valu¬ 
able. Patuffa was constantly with her, and Mama 
laughed secretly sometimes at the lamb-like pa¬ 
tience with which her own masterful child accepted 
the domination of the famous pianist, whose 
moods were as many as the sands of the sea. 

“ A good discipline for her,” Mama confided 
to Madame Tcharushin. 

“ Unless she ends by imitating Janeiro,” sug¬ 
gested Madame. “ And then, Marionska, God 
help you. You may be wishing after all for that 
ordered serenity with that poor Steyning man 

whom, Heaven be praised, you treated so badly.” 

319 


320 


PATUFFA 


Mama looked a little shamefaced, as always 
when Steyning’s name was mentioned, but said 
emphatically “ No.” She shuddered now at the 
mere thought of a life in which there would have 
been no Janeiros, no Pom-poms, no comings and 
goings and unexpected developments and crises, no 
intimacies with wonderful people who took one’s 
breath away and left one panting, exhausted but 
supernaturally joyous. For Mama had fallen in 
love with Janeiro, and lived in an ecstasy of de¬ 
light over her music, given so freely in private 
with a generosity of kindness all the more alluring 
because entirely spontaneous. 

“ What may I play before you to-day, Madame 
Mama?” Janeiro would ask. (Always she said 
“ play before ” — as if every single person were a 
vast audience). u Shall I play Schumann’s Ltudes 
Symphoniques, which I played at St. James’s Hall 
the other day, or do you want some Chopin? 
You have but to choose and I will try and give 
the Mama of my little tigress, who protects me, 
all and anything she asks for. Or perhaps Liszt’s 
Hungarian Rhapsodies? Ah, better not, for my 
Pom-pom’s sweet little nerves are unstrung to-day, 
and Liszt is sometimes too much for him. Ah, 
you laugh. And I laugh, too. Very much I 
laugh at myself.” 

Soon after her arrival came Signor Fragini 
with the Guarnerius violoncello, and Janeiro saw 
to it that he kept his word and, backed by her, 
secured for Patuffa her first appearance at the 


PATUFFA 


321 


Monday Popular Concerts. As those well know 
who had the joy of attending these chamber con¬ 
certs of classical works, they were to music lovers 
in England the glory of the age. Only the finest 
artists played at them, and week after week the 
same audience of enthusiasts gathered there, 
amongst them many of the illustrious people of 
the day. There was a psychic camaraderie 
amongst the audience and a psychic understand¬ 
ing and intimacy between audience and artists 
such as can never come again. 

No need to name those great magicians who 
drew those earnest crowds year in, year out. 

As memory of the wondrous past is stirred, 
visions of them arise, and the sound of their mu¬ 
sic is heard once more across the waste of time. 

It was difficult to obtain an appearance at those 
Concerts, as the fort was held securely and per¬ 
haps too tenaciously by the glorious few; and Pa- 
tuffa, in spite of her success, would have stood 
but little chance of arriving at this Mecca of all 
artists of the bow but for the combined influence 
of Signor Fragini and Madame Janeiro. But 
the miracle was worked, and it was a proud day 
for her, and for those who loved her, when she 
stepped on the platform with the others and led 
off in Schubert’s D Minor Quartet (Der Tod und 
das Mddchen). She played a splendid lead, and 
showed that she had a distinctive gift for quartet 
work. Janeiro played Bach and Brahms, and re¬ 
ceived the ovation to which she was accustomed, 


322 


PATUFFA 


and afterwards joined Fragini and Patuffa in a 
Beethoven Trio. 

She kept none of the applause for herself. She 
let it be seen very clearly that she was sharing, 
not annexing; and the charming way in which she 
thrust her young colleague well to the fore when 
they received the enthusiastic acknowledgments 
of the audience, was nothing of the nature of a 
pose, but the natural expression of her delightful 
disposition. She was one in a thousand, the exact 
opposite of poor old Stefansky and scores of other 
virtuosi, great and small, whom jealousy and sel¬ 
fishness prevent from rejoicing in or promoting 
the success of minor artists taking part in the 
same concert. To share honor with others re¬ 
mained Janeiro’s characteristic to the end, and in 
the biography which followed her death a few 
years afterwards, this beautiful feature of her 
career was recorded side by side with her great 
gifts. 

j 

As for Chummy, he was hopelessly infatuated 
with Janeiro, and seemed prepared to offer her 
himself, his fortune, his house and any other 
little trifling item to which she might take a fancy. 
The day when she descended upon Headquarters 
in all her glory was unforgettable by him and 
every one in the establishment. He dusted the 
Bechstein grand piano himself, tested it half the 
morning, to be sure that the tuner had done his 
exquisite best the day before, and decked the 


P A T U F F A 


323 


music-room with a wealth of flowers until it 
looked like a veritable bower. No Princess in 
a fairy tale could have been prepared for more 
gorgeously or more delicately; and Chummy 
moved about restlessly, smoking the longest of 
long cigars and murmuring at intervals : 

“ Don’t look at me like that, Irene. I know 
perfectly well I’m making a fool of myself at 
seventy-two years of age, but, my God, how I’m 
enjoying it! ” 

Janeiro arrived, and from the moment she set 
foot upon the threshold, the house was shaken 
to its foundations. 

She loved the pictures, and the engravings of 
old-world musicians. 

“ Choose any you want,” said Chummy. 

She was overjoyed with the lovely little spinet, 
and drew tender tinkling tones from it. 

“ Find a place for it in your own home,” said 
Chummy. 

The stained glass fascinated her. 

“ The piece you like best shall be sent to you,”" 
said Chummy. 

She was entranced with the piano. 

“ Take it,” said Chummy. “ It is yours.” 

“ Hasn’t there been enough taken from this 
house? ” she laughed. “ Don’t I know of all the 
kindness showered on a long procession of my 
colleagues? No, I think we will leave the piano 
here — anyway for the present — in its own at¬ 
mosphere, full of sweet and beautiful influences. 


324 P A T U F F A 

I feel them, Mr. Chummy. They are all round 
— near one — pressing on to one, left behind by 
those who have been made happy here and have 
poured out their gifts as I too shall pour out 
mine for you and Irene and every one in this 
house of goodwill to musicians.” 

But Janeiro did not only give her music that 
day to Headquarters. She showered the charm 
and sunshine of her personality on every one, in¬ 
cluding Maria, who was presented to her as the 
one person in the house who knew how to man¬ 
age musicians with kindness but firmness if occa¬ 
sion demanded. Janeiro was told how she had 
always faithfully and unfailingly acted the part 
of patient audience to Stefansky’s practisings, 
dividing her time, no one knew how, between the 
demands of the kitchen stove and the relentless 
tyranny of the bow. 

“ Wonderful, wonderful woman,” laughed and 
praised Janeiro. “ Never before did I hear of 
some one doing those two things together. What? 
You say the audience always in its proper place 
and staying there to the end without rushing out 
for its coat and hat, and the dinner never spoilt? ” 

“ Never, so help me God,” replied Maria 
triumphantly. “ He was a trying person some¬ 
times, was dear Mr. Stefansky, but I’d go through 
a deal more to have him back again and hear 
him scream out at the top of the kitchen stairs: 
‘ Maria, Maria, I bring you one little so lovely 
flower because I have been so shocking, shocking 


PATUFFA 


32 5 


troublesome to-day.’ And he spoke the truth 
there — he did — the poor dear.” 

Then Janeiro, in her impulsive way, snatched 
off the Parma violets she was wearing, and pinned 
them herself on the old woman’s breast. 

“ And now, Maria, you shall be my audience,” 
she cried. “ I shall play before you. What shall 
I play before her, Pom-pom? Something quiet 
and sweet—hein? Chopin’s Berceuse — yes? 
Something to express our gratitude for all her 
long, long patience with her troublesome tribe of 
musicians — yes ? ” 

Yes, the house was shaken to its very founda¬ 
tions, and, after her departure, Maria collapsed 
on to two chairs and fanned herself with Lloyd’s 
Weekly News, the kitchen clock stopped, Chummy 
spurned his books and diagrams of the latest exca¬ 
vations, and Irene spurned her latest story, and 
they both packed off to the Lyceum Theater to 
see Irving and Ellen Terry in Olivia. 

Irene wrote in her diary that night: 

“ Janeiro has been, and we were all disinte¬ 
grated — darling Chummy most of all. I have 
never seen him so bowled over by any one, but 
she is indeed an adorable woman as well as a 
magician at the piano. I don’t wonder she has 
had three husbands, and I’m sure Chummy would 
make the fourth if he had the chance. 

“ Well, well, what a world, as Patuffa always 
says. Mama with her middle-aged love affair 


326 


PATUFFA 


at full tilt — and then suddenly off — Chummy 
at seventy-two in the seventh heaven of ecstatic 
rapture — and in a day or two, I suppose, fairly 
well recovered — let us hope so, at least — Pa- 
tuffa, a few months ago in a tragic condition of 
hopeless despair and now restored to happy enthu¬ 
siasm and joy of life — Cousin Keble carrying 
on his love affair all by himself, keeping a watch¬ 
ful eye and mounting guard — the only stable 
person amongst us, I think. 

“ For I’m not really stable. I only pretend to 
be, because some one has got to pretend. 

“ But privately, between me and my diary, I 
could very well have let myself fall in love with 
that guide at the Colosseum, who turned out to 
be a Professor of History under a cloud. I could 
have made quite a fool of myself with him. How 
he poured himself out for our benefit when he 
realized that we were interested and intellectual 
people! He made no attack on the brain, but 
instead a gentle and gradual approach which 
stimulated and did not fatigue. A Prince amongst 
guides, he was. Well, I must write a little romance 
about him some day. That won’t interfere with 
anybody. Certainly for the present we cannot 
do with any more love affairs in our circle. 

“ Janeiro is the most generous-hearted artist 
that has ever crossed our threshold. I should 
imagine that jealousy is entirely unknown to her. 
What a happy chance for Patuffa and all of us 
that she arrived at Rome at exactly the right mo- 




PATUFFA 


327 


ment. It was a miracle which is still continuing 
its work. She spoke to us a good deal about 
Patufla’s playing, and believes she has a great 
future before her. She used an expression which 
interested me. She said that Patuffa fathomed 
the soul of a piece . She said she had spirituality 
and grace, sensibility, warmth, verve, colorful 
wealth of shading and dreaminess — and that 
passion, grandeur and splendor would come. To 
be praised like that by Janeiro — think of it! 
How glad and proud I am! 

“ She says that our music-room is charmed 
ground, and perhaps she is right. Is it not pos¬ 
sible that the magic of genius and glorious gifts 
and the rapture of expression and fulfilment cast 
spells around and make of any region an en¬ 
chanted realm? Certain it is that as she played 
before us in the fading light, in the glow from 
the fire, with sweet fragrances wafted from the 
flowers, with secret emanations from books and 
pictures and mystic benediction from the silent 
organ, the atmosphere became charged with liv¬ 
ing, vibrating influences uniting with her own ra¬ 
diant spirit to build a cathedral of sound.” 


CHAPTER III 


I T so chanced at this time that Hendered re¬ 
signed his post of manager of the Philhar¬ 
monic Concerts, and went wholly into part¬ 
nership with his brother who was one of the lead¬ 
ing impresarios of the day. He was anxious to 
secure Madame Janeiro for a prolonged English 
tour and made an appointment with her at her 
house in Green Street. 

He found her in one of her most intractable 
moods with which he had very little patience, 
although he had to assume a suave and gentle 
amiability to meet the occasion. He hated to 
have to try and cajole and coax her into ac¬ 
quiescence. But his brother had laid great stress 
on engaging her at all costs. 

“ We’ve got to have her,” he said. “ No one 
else must step in. She is so capricious and im¬ 
pulsive that there is no knowing who will capture 
her. You’ve been her agent before, and you 
know her and her ways. You must pull this 
affair off, no matter what she asks.” 

George Hendered had been having a great deal 
of trouble lately with famous and imperious and 
spoilt artists, and was wishing them all safely and 

permanently located at the bottom of the sea. He 

328 


PATUFFA 


329 


wished also all the Pom-poms of the world in the 
same geographical position. For this Pom-pom 
snarled and pecked at him and finally howled. He 
could have killed Pom-pom instead of smiling 
indulgently and smoking the very fine cigar offered 
him by the wayward Janeiro. 

“ No, my friend Hen’dered,” she said. “ I can¬ 
not consent to any tour. Very pleased I am to 
see you again. You were a most good and splen¬ 
did manager to me and most patient. I give you 
every praise. But I am tired of touring. As for 
touring in your so United Kingdom, I could not 
begin to dream of it. It makes my neuralgias 
much worse even to think of such a thing. Ah, 
my God, what neuralgias I have to-day! No, 
I shall never tour any more. And perhaps I 
shall never play any more. I feel that I never 
again want to touch the piano, Hendered. I 
have lost my Art for evermore.” 

With that she rose suddenly, sat down to the 
piano and played the “ Revolutionary ” Ftude 
of Chopin. 

“ Ha,” she cried at the end, “ that was not so 
bad, was it? ” 

“ No,” he said stolidly. “ It was not too bad 
for some one who has lost her Art for ever¬ 
more.” 

She laughed. 

“ Well, well,” she said, “ perhaps I have not 
lost it altogether. Ah, my neuralgias are better. 
Perhaps I might manage a small little tour — but 


330 


PATUFFA 


oh, so small — one town — Manchester — be¬ 
cause there one is sure of a fine appreciative audi¬ 
ence like nothing else in England.” 

“ Come, come, Madame Janeiro,” he smiled. 
“ One town does not make a tour, does it? ” 

“ I would not very greatly object to Edin¬ 
burgh,” she continued, u because it is such a beau¬ 
tiful city. There now. Am I not being good? 
Two towns.” 

“ Two towns are not enough as you know 
well,” Hendered said with divine patience. 

“ Well, well, suppose we say three,” she con¬ 
ceded. “ But not Glasgow, and not Dublin with 
that so dreadful Irish Channel — never again that 
Irish Channel. We could say Manchester, Edin¬ 
burgh — and no more. I change my mind. Two 
towns, not three. What do you say, my little 
Pom-pom? I think we can manage two towns? ” 

Pom-pom howled, and Hendered yearned to 
smother him. But there was no trace of mur¬ 
derous intent in his manner as he went on: 

“ You will get magnificent receptions in Glas¬ 
gow, Gloucester, Cardiff, Norwich, Worcester, 
Leeds and all the usual towns. And in Dublin 
you’ll be Queen of the Emerald Isle. Now do 
be reasonable — do listen to reason.” 

“Reason!” Janeiro cried. “Listen to rea¬ 
son! Never. If I listened to reason, Hendered, 

I shall be lost. It is a thing I never do.” 

He would have liked to say: “ No, you don’t, 
by Jove.” 


PATUFFA 


331 


Instead he went on: 

“ And as for the Irish Channel, why should 
you make such a fuss about that little bit of sea 
after all your ocean journeys?” 

“ Fussf” she exclaimed, throwing up her arms 
to the ceiling, in dramatic fashion. “ Do you not 
know, do you not remember, Hendered, that I 
nearly died on that terrible journey, and I went 
to my bed of suffering, and nearly was the Con¬ 
cert put off? Do you not remember? I shudder 
now to think of it.” 

“ Yes, I remember,” he said* with a calm smile. 
“ And you rose from it, and had about a score 
of recalls, or more.” 

“ I shudder to think of it,” she repeated. 

She added, with a flush of pleasure on her face: 

u But I admit it was a grand evening.” 

“ And you will have another of the same na¬ 
ture,” he urged — “ only even grander, if pos^ 
sible.” 

“ No, no. You must not ask me to cross that 
so awful Irish Channel again,” she said stub¬ 
bornly. “ You know I am always frightened at 
sea, and that Irish Channel is far worse than all 
the oceans of the world. To go to America or 
Australia is a mere nothing in comparison.” 

And at that moment Patuffa knocked and put 
her head in at the door. 

“ Engaged, Janeiro? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, my child,” Janeiro answered, “ but come 
in and protect me from this horrible and brutal 


332 


PATUFFA 


Mr. Hendered who wishes to send me to my 
doom. You will not allow that, I am sure.” 

“ I’ll come back and frustrate hinv,” Patuffa 
laughed, greeting Hendered. “ I’m just going to 
get the score of Parsifal for you, and running in 
to Hill’s to fetch my Strad which wanted over¬ 
hauling. I shan’t be long. Hold your own with 
Mr. Plendered until I return.” 

“ Tell him, Patuffe, that never again must I 
cross the Irish Channel,” Janeiro said. “ Tell 
him I should take to my bed as I did at Milan 
— and never rise. You remember? ” 

“ Yes, I remember,” she laughed. “ And if 
that could happen without the Irish Channel, 
Heaven knows what might happen with it! Mr. 
Hendered must be mad.” 

“ I shall be soon,” he said, his face brightening, 
“ if you’re going to fight me on behalf of some 
one else. A good thing for me that you’re run¬ 
ning off.” 

After she had gone, Janeiro said: 

“ A good thing for you that she came in. I 
have her career very much at heart. I want to 
speak to you about her. And listen, Hendered, 
perhaps I make that little tour you are teasing 
me about, not quite so little after all.” 

What she had at heart, she said, was a tour 
in the United States for that little clever girl 
as soon as possible. Hendered could arrange it 
if he chose — and he must choose. It would be 
a tremendous push forward for her, and Janeiro 


PATUFFA 


333 


was sure she would win instant recognition. The 
child had the secret, the great secret; she had 
imagination; she had dash; she had amazing tech¬ 
nique, and a nobility of style. She would grow, 
of course, and her playing would reveal unsus¬ 
pected horizons. And then, too, she had a very 
marked personality, and she was most unselfish, 
and always ready to fight a battle to take care 
of some one. Janeiro laughed as she told the 
story of the Guarnerius violoncello and the poor 
Marchese who had been almost annihilated by 
Patuffa’s fierce indignation on her behalf. 

But Hendered said he could go one better; and 
he gave Janeiro an account of that interview when 
Patuffa had bombarded him in the cause of her 
old Master Stefansky. Janeiro was deeply moved 
to learn that she had been willing—and not 
only willing, but positively eager — to sacrifice 
her second appearance at the Philharmonic so that 
Stefansky might not be left out in the cold. 

“ That bowled me over, entirely,” he said. 
“Very few would do that — no one except you, 
Madame Janeiro. You would.” 

“ No, no, I wouldn’t,” she said, shaking her 
head. “Well — perhaps now. I don’t know. 
Pm not sure. I might. Things do not matter 
so much when one is no longer young and the 
ball does not need to be kicked high. But when 
I was young — never — never.” 

Hendered was silent a moment and then said: 

“ I’ve never forgotten it, and never shall forget 


334 


PATUFFA 


it. It taught me that gratitude was not dead in 
this rotten old world. And that was why I put 
the old man in. I had rather a fight about it 
with the Directors — but in he went.” 

“ It was well done, Hendered,” she said, hold¬ 
ing out her hand. “ It was well done. When a 
breath of fresh air is wafted in our direction, 
we should indeed be fools not to drink it in and 
be renewed. That’s what it comes to — re¬ 
newed.” 

“ Yes,” he said quietly, and sat drumming with 
his fingers on the arm of the easy-chair, with a 
faraway smile on his face. 

Suddenly Janeiro sprang up in a state of great 
excitement. 

“I have it!” she exclaimed. “You arrange 
an American tour for that child and me. We 
do it together. I shall take care of her success. 
You arrange it at once — as soon as possible. 
You can do it at once if you choose.” 

“You really mean this?” he asked incredu¬ 
lously. 

“ Of course I mean it,” she answered. “ Of 
course we mean it — do we not, little Pom¬ 
pom? ” 

“ You mean seriously that you would go on 
tour with Miss Rendham in the United States? ” 
he said. “ What a chance for her! And you 
mean it? ” 

“ Of course I mean it,” she repeated. “ But 
you must do things quickly. No use to wait until 


PATUFFA 


335 


she is in her grave. She could not undertake an 
American tour in her grave. No, now is the 
moment.” 

“ Done,” he said. “ I’ll hurry it on all I can. 
Jove, my brother will be pleased. And about 
terms — we shall not quarrel — you may be 
sure.” 

“Quarrel!” she cried. “We don’t quarrel 
when we are busy taking in the fresh air.” 

“ But look here, Madame Janeiro,” he said a 
little anxiously, “ this is all very well, but what 
about the tour over here? We have not settled 
anything yet? ” 

“ We have,” she said dramatically. “ I bribe 
you to make haste. I give in. I go to a few more 
of your horrible towns — Gloucester, yes, Glas¬ 
gow, yes, Aberdeen, yes, Cardiff, well, yes — if I 
must — but not Dublin — no, Hendered, that is 
too much. I really, really could not. Never again 
do I wish to be Queen of the Emerald Island.” 

“ Well, if you won’t, you won’t,” he said 
pleasantly. “ You’ve given in most generously, 
and I’m sure I can’t complain. But that was a 
wonderful evening at Dublin. A record evening. 
Something very thrilling in Irish applause.” 

“ You need not go on telling me that,” she 
said. “ I know already. Very thrilling. An 
enthusiastic people. Artists, poets, every one of 
them.” 

She threw her hands up in the air in token of 
surrender. 


336 


PATUFFA 


“ Well, well,” she laughed. “ I give in all the 
way. I go to Dublin. But if I die, as I nearly 
did before in my so great fright — you remember 
— it is your fault. You don’t mind that, heartless 
and cruel brute that you are. Very good, then, 
it is a bargain. Yes? You arrange about that 
American tour prestissimo for me and that little 
girl who taught you gratitude was not dead — 
and other sweet things were not also dead — I 
think I am not wrong in saying that . . 

“ No, you are not wrong,” Hendered said, star¬ 
ing fixedly on the ground. 

“ And has taught me, too,” Janeiro continued. 
u And I cross that wicked Irish Channel and I 
perish from fright in the way you wish. That 
is settled. We drink a glass of champagne to¬ 
gether! Ring, Hendered.” 

Patuffa came in with the waiter and the cham¬ 
pagne and learnt the news. She stood almost 
paralyzed from joy and surprise, dropped the 
Parsifal score and nearly dropped the Strad. She 
could not speak. She could only blink, her in¬ 
variable habit when she was overcome. 

“ I believe you are going to cry,” Hendered 
teased her. “ Be careful. You told me once you 
only cried when you were in a rage. And this 
is not an occasion for temper.” 

“ I believe I am going to cry,” she said, and 
certainly the tears came into her eyes and began 
to trickle down her cheeks. Only a few, a very 
few. She brushed them away, recovered control 


PATUFFA 


337 


of her great emotion, and turned to Janeiro. 

“ The honor — the kindness — the generosity,” 
she murmured. “ I being allowed to go with 
you — to play with you — to-” 

She broke off. It was too much for her. All 
she could do was to repeat the words honor, 
kindness, generosity, turning now to Janeiro, now 
to Hendered. 

“ Let us raise our glasses and drink to the 
memory of Stefansky,” Janeiro said. 

They drank to his memory in silence. And 
then as Janeiro put down her glass, she said: 

“ This tour is not only my present to you, little 
Patuffa, but Stefansky’s. Mr. Hendered has been 
telling me how one morning a fine and clever 
young artist with her career to make and the right 
to leap on every opportunity to make it, was 
nevertheless willing and eager to forgo a great 
chance, so that a famous and illustrious musician, 
but old and discarded and no longer wanted, might 
take her place.” 

“ He had been so good to me,” Patuffa said 
in a low voice, “ and I could not bear that he 
should be neglected at the last.” 

“ We have drunk to his memory, and we shall 
do this tour in memory of him,” Janeiro went 
on. “ And now, Hendered, listen to me again. 
If you do not make all the haste you can with 
the arrangements, I go not to Dublin. I cross not 
that so beastly Irish Channel. Is that clear? ” 

“ Quite unmistakably clear,” he laughed. “ I 



338 


PATUFFA 


won’t fail. And as for Dublin, why don’t you 
take Miss Rendham with you to hold your hand 
and keep your spirits and save you from perish¬ 
ing from fright? I don’t suppose she is frightened 
of the sea, if I know anything about her.” 

“Frightened of the sea!” scorned Patuffa. 
“ Of course not. Why, we are a family of sailors 
on my mother’s side. My two brothers are in 
the Navy. I should have been there if I’d been a 
man. The sea is ours,” 

“ Ah, well, that’s good,” Hendered nodded. 
“ You’ll be able to keep Madame Janeiro going 
and take care of her in the wildest storm, then? ” 

“ Only too proudly, and with my life,” an¬ 
swered Patuffa. 

“And Pom-pom?” Janeiro asked with a 
twinkle in her eye. 

“ And Pom-pom,” laughed Patuffa. 

“ Not Pom-pom,” said Hendered, sotto voce. 

Patuffa laughed again. She was gloriously 
happy. 


i 


CHAPTER IV 


G loriously happy, who would not 

have been? Patuffa almost danced home, 
stopping on her way to buy flowers and 
a new bonnet for Mama on which she had set 
her heart; for the news she had to bring was 
great, and worthy of special celebration. Mama 
scarcely knew whether to rejoice over seeing her 
so light-hearted, or over the exciting tidings, or 
over the dainty Parisian millinery. 

“ Patuffa,” she exclaimed, “ what splendid 
news, and what a brick Janeiro is, and my dear 
child, what a divine bonnet! But you spoil me. 
You’re recklessly extravagant.” 

“ Nothing like what I shall be when I bring the 
plunder home from America,” laughed Patuffa. 
“ Wait and see ! ” 

In the evening she dashed round to Headquar¬ 
ters to receive congratulations from her faithful 
friends there. The house was already shaken to 
its foundations by the arrival of Blackwood’s 
Magazine containing Irene’s first paper on the 
Tombs of the Popes. Patuffa’s news produced a 
still severer earthquake of happiness. 

Said Chummy, beaming with pride: 

“ Have I not reason to be proud of my two 

children? My scholar ensconced in Blackwood’s 

339 


340 


PATUFFA 


Magazine, the goal of all writers, my fiddler with 
the world opening its doors always wider to hear 
her scratchings.” 

Said Maria, fanning herself with Lloyd’s 
Weekly: 

“If we have any more good news to-day my 
poor nerves will give way. But we are wonder¬ 
ful people here and no mistake, what with Miss 
Irene’s Black Adagazine . . 

“ Blackwood’s Magazine, old idiot,” laughed 
Patuffa, tweaking her right ear. 

“ And your journey to Australia, Miss Pa¬ 
tuffa . . .” 

“ America,” laughed Irene, tweaking her left 
ear. 

“ And my beautiful iced cake waiting in the 
larder to be eaten by the greedy.” 

They captured the cake, sat on the kitchen table 
and ate hunks of it, and Patuffa scrunched up 
Lloyd’s Weekly into a ball, as she used to do in 
the past, to tease Maria, and threw it into the 
fire. The old woman was delighted. 

“ Why, that’s more like yourself than I’ve 
seen you for many a day,” she nodded approval. 

And Chummy echoed that thought in the music- 
room. Patuffa caught up the fiddle she always 
kept there and played tricks and charlatan antics 
on it amidst much laughter and applause. She 
insisted on hearing Irene’s article read aloud by 
the author from beginning to end, and pinched 
her enthusiastically until she cried for mercy. She 


PATUFFA 


341 


thrust her from the room and made her reenter 
to take a “ recall.” Her pleasure over Irene’s 
success was a great joy to Chummy, and he 
chuckled over her pose of patronage: 

“ Go on, my child,” she exhorted. “ If you 
continue writing for another twenty years, you 
may attain to the mastery of the English language, 
and you may not. Continue to be as diligent as 
you were at school, never cease studying day or 
night, continue to neglect your aged parent, con¬ 
tinue to take no interest in the friend of your 
childhood, concentrate your mind on lofty sub¬ 
jects, and in your dotage you may perhaps attain 
to fame — and you may not. My blessing and 
my encouragement. You have earned both. I am 
pleased with you, my child.” 

Before she went home, she confided to 
Chummy: 

“ I want you to know that I have ‘ found my 
way,’ and with your help — always with your 
help. It was you who brought Madame Janeiro 
to me, at my moment of great need. And it was 
you who spoke words to me at the Villa d’Este 
that I shall never forget. They have borne fruit, 
Chummy. I shall never again turn from mu¬ 
sic.” 

“ That is the best news you could give me,” 
he smiled. “ Every one’s career’s safe then.” 

After she had gone, Irene made this entry in 
her diary: 


342 


PATUFFA 


“ The happiest evening we’ve all had together 
for a long time, and Patuffa in the best of spirits 
and so awfully pleased about my Blackwood 
article. I shouldn’t be enjoying my little bit of 
triumph half so much if she had not entered into 
it heart and soul, teased me and patted me on the 
back and patronized me just as she did at school 
as well as protected me! And she still intends 
to protect me, and says that from this day on¬ 
wards, if any editor dares to return any of my 
work, his life won’t be safe, and certainly not the 
hair of his head! Chummy’s so happy about our 
careers. The only thing that matters, he says! ” 

Patuffa in her bedroom that night, paced about, 
too restless and excited for sleep. The prospect 
before her had keyed her up to highest pitch. Her 
ambitions had become keener than ever since she 
had mastered her memory of Peter Long, and they 
besieged her now with an impetuosity which was 
well nigh overwhelming. She would scale heights 
which no one else had reached. She would handle 
her mind, and her music in a way that would make 
her rendering of great works, in the words of her 
Moscow master, Auer, a fresh miracle. Janeiro 
should never have cause to regret that she had 
given her this great chance and shown her this 
tremendous honor. 

The thought of this honor eclipsed in the end 
all other thoughts; for Patuffa was living in the 
days when young people were still capable of hero- 
worship and reverence for the matured attain- 


PATUFFA 


343 


ments of their elders; and the spiritual value she 
put on this famous pianist’s generous-hearted con¬ 
descension to a young comrade was the outcome 
of a true and simple homage. 

At twenty-four years of age one does not pon¬ 
der over one’s past life, and turn details and 
events inside out for sorrowful or joyous inspec¬ 
tion. But that night it flashed through Patuffa’s 
mind how much life had given her and how much 
she owed to others. No one, she was sure, had 
ever had such friends—Maria, Chummy, Irene, 
Stefansky, Pat Tcharushin, and now Janeiro. She 
had never deserved them — never could deserve 
them, even if she lived to be a hundred. But she 
would put up a fight. She could at least do that. 

And then there was Keble. He had been 
extraordinarily kind lately and easy to get on 
with, but sooner or later she would have to make 
it clear to him that if he waited until Doomsday 
she would never be ready for him. If only he 
would fix his affections on some one in his own 
world — the daughter of a Q.C. for instance. 
Perhaps he would in time. But perhaps he would 
not. He was so tenacious, so solidly stubborn. 
Sometimes her heart warmed to him a little be¬ 
cause of his unswerving fidelity — but not often 
and not for any length of time. No, she would 
never want him. She did not want any man’s love 
now. She had no love to give any man. She 
had spent it all, poured it all out on Peter. 
Would she always feel like that? Perhaps not. 


344 


PATUFFA 


She could not say. All she knew, was that she 
intended to stand alone, possess herself and be 
free to realize her utmost aspirations after an 
enduring fame — as Janeiro’s would be, as Ste- 
fansky’s was, and Tartini’s, and Paganini’s and 
Ernst’s and all the rest of them — and after the 
power which fame brings. She had always wished 
for power ever since she was a child. And she 
did not pretend to herself that she desired it any 
less acutely now. 

Fame, power and influence — and to use them 
after Janeiro’s fashion. What a lesson of gen¬ 
erosity to be taught. The giving of a fine op¬ 
portunity to a young comrade. The opening of 
doors for the young to enter into their own ter¬ 
ritory. She vowed she would live up to that les¬ 
son. When her turn came, she would give 
chances, she would open doors, wide, wide, she 
would share laurels. And if she faltered from this 
ideal, she could surely pull herself together by 
remembering the emotions of this joyous, this 
red-letter day in her life. 

She took out Stefansky’s Stradivari and held it 
before her. He had addressed it and appealed to 
it at the end of his long journey. Patuffa ad¬ 
dressed it and charged it in the early stages of 
the road stretching before her in sunshine and 
glad hope. 

“ You and I must attain,” she said. “ We 
must press on and attain to those heights we 
know of. We too must see the burning vision 



PATUFFA 


345 


and show it to others. But always, always, what¬ 
ever happens to us of success and triumph, we 
must remember to share. If I forget when I am 
not with you, it is for your voice to call me to 
order — do you hear, dear lovely old thing, with 
your lovely orange red brown varnish, like all 
the glorious autumn tints mixed together. Never 
was there such a varnish. Never such a fiddle. 
Well, good-night! ” 

She fell asleep at last, dreamed happy dreams 
of adventures and ambitions and stirring compan¬ 
ionship and awoke saying: “ The honor of it — 
the honor of it” 


CHAPTER V 


T HE news of Patuffa’s good fortune was re¬ 
ceived with delight by every one in her 
circle, except Keble. Keble had of late 
been much easier to get on with. His success 
at the Bar appeared to have improved him in 
private life, and he had adhered to his resolution 
not to lay down the law in Cousin Marion’s 
home. 

He had come into prominence rapidly since the 
trial of Martin Cope, and many good briefs found 
their way to his Chambers in Fountain Court. It 
was evident that he had a busy and prosperous 
career before him. 

Since Patuffa’s return from Rome he had been 
so wise and tactful, and with such pleasant results 
to them both, that once or twice it almost looked 
as if he were making a little progress in his quiet 
but stubborn pursuit of her. But if it were true 
that he had advanced any infinitesimal distance 
towards his goal, he was sent flying back to a po¬ 
sition wide of the starting point, when he caviled 
at the American tour with Madame Janeiro. 

It was to Mama that he made his first carping 
criticisms in his best authoritative manner. Ma¬ 
dame Janeiro was a wonderful artist, of course, 

and of course from a professional point of view 

346 


PATUFFA 


347 


it was a grand chance for Patuffa to tour with 
such a distinguished woman as colleague, but was 
it desirable that Patuffa — a Rendham, mind you, 
of finest family and fairest name — should be 
caught up into the private life of a woman with 
Madame Janeiro’s record in affaires de coeurf 
He felt strongly on the subject, he said, and could 
not keep silent. 

Mama was angry and showed great spirit. 

“ Really, Keble,” she said, “ you’re hopeless. 
Can’t you find something better to do than to pick 
holes in Madame Janeiro because she happens to 
have divorced a few husbands, or to have been 
divorced by them — it doesn’t matter which — 
the discredit always descends on the woman. 
Can’t you instead focus on her genius and her 
unheard-of kindness to Patuffa? What are you 
muttering? Something about far-reaching effects 
on Patuffa? Nonsense. Patuffa will only see the 
good and take the good. Pd stake my life on 
that. And she knows what she wants in life and 
can very well take care of herself without you or 
me interfering.” 

“ Of course, if you were going with them, it 
would be different,” he persisted. “ Perhaps you 
will go.” 

“ Certainly not,” answered Mama. “ I 
shouldn’t dream of spoiling their soup.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You are a most extraordinary mother, Cousin 

Marion.” 


348 


PATUFFA 


“ I’m thankful I am,” she retorted. “ And if 
there were a few more extraordinary mothers who 
gave their daughters freedom, things would get on 
a bit and young women would come into their 
own more quickly.” 

M Madame Tcharushin’s teaching, I suppose,” 
he said dryly. 

“ It’s in the air, Keble,” Mama said. “ I’ve 
been able to sense it aided by Patuffa herself who 
always made her own life, as I’ve told you dozens 
of times. And she is well able to. With all her 
dash and independence she is wise.” 

“Was she very wise about that poor mad fel¬ 
low? ” he ventured. 

“ I sometimes think you are the greater luna¬ 
tic,” Mama said impatiently. “ You pretend to 
yourself to love her and have got into the habit 
of pretending, and are planning all the. time to 
win her; and yet you never put yourself in her 
position and see things from her point of view for 
a moment. Here’s a case in point. She gets 
this great and delightful opening which w T ould 
hearten any one, and you, instead of rejoicing as 
we all do, only lay stress on the disadvantages. 
So like you, Keble, to throw cold water. I can’t 
think how I was stupid enough ever to wish that 
Patuffa might come in time to love you. I had a 
bee in my bonnet about ‘ ordered serenity,’ calm 
security, a rock to lean on and all that. But 
I’ve got rid of that bee, and changed all my views 
about that sort of thing, and I assure you I’m no 


P A T U F F A 


349 


longer secretly on your side. I shan’t give you a 
bit of help from this day onwards — so don’t 
expect it.” 

“You have changed greatly, Cousin Marion/’ 
he said reproachfully. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ and if you were to change 
too, and become less stereotyped, it would be all 
the better for you, Cousin Keble.” 

She added, half mischievously: 

“ I hope you satisfy yourself absolutely and 
entirely about all the details of the lives of the 
solicitors who give you your briefs and minister to 
your career.” 

“ You talk sheer nonsense,’* he said, with half 
a smile and half a frown. 

He came away disturbed in mind. It was true 
that hitherto Cousin Marion had been more or less 
his ally, not by any spoken agreement, but vaguely; 
passively, by belief in him, trust in him, reliance 
on him in a dozen ways and family esprit de corps . 
And now she had declared aga-inst him. Well, he 
would go on without her. Was she such a loss, 
after all? What was it she had said? That he 
pretended to himself to love Pa-tuff a and had got 
the habit of pretending to himself to. love Patuffa. 
The words roused him, obsessed him. Pretend to 
love her — when she was all* the world-to him; 
had always been all the world to him, leaving no 
space for any thought of any other woman —- 
when everything that affected her was of the ut¬ 
most concern to him — when in his professional 


350 


PATUFFA 


life he was inspired the whole time by the hope 
of offering her all the things the world could give 
of wealth and social prestige and sheltered se¬ 
curity— yes, that sheltered security at which 
Cousin Marion scoffed. Pretend to love her — 
when his very anxiety on her behalf was but the 
outcome of his love and his longing to guard her 
from all hurtful circumstances. 

Yet he could almost have laughed at the vacuity 
of these words which echoed in his ears, in his 
rooms, in his chambers, in the Law Courts — 
everywhere. He could have laughed at Cousin 
Marion’s ridiculous inaneness in giving utterance 
to what she knew to be entirely untrue. 

What had happened to her? Why should she 
make light of security and serenity? Why had 
she changed so unaccountably since her own most 
irresponsible behavior in the Steyning affair —— 
falling headlong into love and precipitating her¬ 
self out before one had the chance to take a 
breath? Utterly unstable she seemed to have 
become, merely taking the color of the surround¬ 
ings in which she moved — most unfortunate sur¬ 
roundings, too — full of Russian revolutionaries 
and Stefanskys and Janeiros and the like — a 
world from which he wished more than ever that 
he could rescue Patuffa. Not that he did not 
think these artists splendid people. No one could 
say that he did not admire their endowments. 
But their place was in the Concert Hall — on the 
platform. Nowhere else should they be. Al- 


PATUFFA 


351 


ways there, chained up, imprisoned in their only 
rightful region. Janeiro, for instance, playing 
the Beethoven Emperor Concerto, Schumann's 
Kreisleriana, Brahms’s Rhapsodies, Liszt’s Fan¬ 
tasias, Chopin’s Nocturnes, like the magnificent 
queen she was. There was no denying that she 
was a queen. There was no denying that she 
was generous-hearted. But when it came to per¬ 
sonal intimacy between a woman of the world 
such as she was, and little Patuffa, well — wasn’t 
that an entirely different proposition, *and how on 
earth could not Cousin Marion see it? 

But his interview with Mama had not been lost 
on him, and when he saw Patuffa a few days later, 
he began well by keeping his opinions to himself. 

Patuffa had been having a tremendous practise 
at Tartini’s Devil’s Trill Sonata and she was 
hugely pleased with her trills, but felt she could 
have another “ go ” at them after a rest and a 
good munch of chocolates. She ran down from 
her music-room with her fiddle under her arm and 
waving her bow triumphantly in the air. She was 
in high spirits, and when Keble came, lost no time 
in telling him herself of the good fortune which 
had befallen her. The animation on her face al¬ 
most made her look beautiful, as she stood planted 
on the hearthrug and confided to him how excited 
and thrilled and happy she was. She must rise 
to the occasion somehow, she said, but Heaven 
only knew how. She didn’t. For the honor of 
being Janeiro’s confrere was colossal, simply 


352 


PATUFFA 


colossal, and she would have to practise not only 
till her arms dropped off, as Stefansky used to 
say, but until her very heart ceased to beat. 

“ And not only practise, but study. Study and 
practise. Practise and study. What a world! ” 
she laughed. 

She punctuated her remarks with a trill or 
two, and then asked: 

“ There now, what do you think of that? ” 

He was caught by her happiness and stirred by 
her as he had never been before. 

“ I am glad for you, Patuffa,” he said. “ I 
suppose this tour will be a benefit to your career.” 

“ Benefit to- my career! ” she repeated with an 
amused little laugh. “ What a word to use. 
Why, it’s the resplendent chance of a- lifetime. 
That’s the way to put it. A great artist like 
Madame Janeiro taking a young thing like myself 
by the hand and sharing with her. Think of it a 
moment. Why, it’s literally strewing my path 
with roses — roses. I really h^ve not got any 
right to such an opportunity. But I revel in the 
thought of it, and love, to have it given me by 
Janeiro of all people. And a part from the mu¬ 
sic, the glorious times we shall have together ! 
Such a heavenly companion she is — so many 
things rolled into one — such joie de vivre — 
ready for any fun, any adventure and with grave, 
unforgettable moments when you pierce into the 
heart of things. Tantrums and temper of course, 
but I can deal with*those right enough. Pm really 


PATUFFA 


353 


becoming frightfully clever at dealing with them. 
Signor Fragini thinks that Fm a wonder, and 
that my true vocation is that of virtuoso tamer 1 
Perhaps it is! Oh, and I must tell you the latest. 
It is arranged that we end up with Southern Cali¬ 
fornia, and then we’re going to amuse ourselves 
by a dash to the back country — the wild' parts. 
I’m so excited w r hen I think of it all, that I feel 
quite silly.” 

So she rattled on, joyous and light-hearted, until 
suddenly, probably from jealousy over her hero- 
worship of Janeiro, Keble forgot his secret resolve 
to make no criticism of her friend. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it all sounds delightful, Pa- 
tuffa. And of course I am frightfully glad that 
some one is going to strew roses in your path, 
but I can’t help wishing it wasn’t Madame Janeiro 
— or at least that she was a different kind of 
woman.” 

“ What do you mean? ” Patuffa- asked abruptly, 
her eyes going to a pin’s point. 

u Well, I wish her code of life was one to which 
you are accustomed in your family circle. It 
isn’t — as you probably know.” 

Her face instantly became tense with ^nger. 
Almost she could have struck hini with her fiddle 
which was tucked under her arm. She' stiffened 
up to her full height and stood glaring at him 
with the fierceness of a young wild animal that 
is about to spring. 

“ Look here, Keble,” she said in a voice that 


354 


PATUFFA 


trembled from rage. “ You’d better not try it 
on. You’d better not say or hint one word 
against Janeiro to me. I won’t stand it, I 
tell you — not from you or any one in this 
world.” 

And then all at once she was up against some¬ 
thing which stemmed the current of her anger. 
Keble’s pent up passionate love for her broke 
loose. He was shaken by a tornado of passion 
and longing which he did not attempt to control, 
did not want to control, could not control. He 
poured out that he needed her, yearned for her, 
could not live his life without her, had loved her 
and marked her out for his own ever since he 
had first seen her, years ago, hungered to guard 
and protect her, made all his mistakes only out 
of love and deep devotion, would learn, oh yes, 
he could learn, he wasn’t a fool, he would learn 
as no man had ever learnt before. He could not 
live without her. She was the need of his life. 
The days would be devastated without her. He 
could not go on in the way he had been going 
on. He would go mad. People thought he was 
calm and self-contained, and all the while there 
was a fire, a burning fire raging within him. 

“ Pretend to love you,” he cried. “ Your 
mother said I pretend to love you.’' 

He ended up with choking sobs, flung himself 
on the sofa and smothered his face in the cushions. 

Patufla stood completely overwhelmed by this 
unexpected tempest which had broken over her 


PATUFFA 


355 


head. Her anger, her fierceness, were swept away 

« 

in the torrent of emotions stirred up by the 
spectacle of this man’s desperate suffering. She 
was moved to her depths — but not by love for 
him. Many a woman before her has been hurled 
from her moorings of indifference and has sur¬ 
rendered to passionate importunity and appeal. 
But Patuffa was not of that type. She was moved 
by understanding, sympathy and kindness. She 
had agonized so much over her own love and 
desire for some one hopelessly out of her reach, 
and never by any chance of altered circumstances 
to be attained by her, that she knew something 
of what this man was suffering— this man with 
all his barriers down, all his reserve gone, all 
his; yearning laid bare. She knew that until now 
she had never gauged the depths of the- love of 
this self-contained man, whose stubborn attach¬ 
ment to her she had come to regard as a matter 
of course, not disturbing in itself, anyway, not 
disturbing enough to make her feel she was des¬ 
perately up against a tremendous force with which 
she had to deal once, and for all time. 

But the moment had come and she met it in her 
own way. 

She had not stirred an inch from the spot to 
which she had advanced on him in her fierce in¬ 
dignation. She had not put down her fiddle. It 
was still tucked under her right arm, and her left 
arm was folded tightly over her breast. Her 
face was pale and drawn. Very rigid was her 


356 


PATUFFA 


little determined figure. But there was an un¬ 
wonted tone of gentleness in her voice when she 
began at last to speak to him: 

“ Keble, old Keble, I don’t love you in that way, 
I really don’t. I’ve always tried to make that 
clear in our relationship, but I suppose I’ve failed. 
It would not be honest of me if I did not say that 
there were one or two occasions when I’ve half 
wondered whether I had got further on than 
merely liking you and being very fond of you as 
a friend and a family chum. But only half won¬ 
dered. And you yourself have always been the 
one to destroy any such possibility. We are not 
suited to each other — never could be. Our 
worlds are different, and our values are different. 
Every week brings out the difference. I’m not 
certain I shouldn’t feel caged with any one I mar¬ 
ried. But with you I should feel more than 
caged. Supposing, for the sake of argument, 
that I married you because I liked you and knew 
you to be a good old Keble who would never fail 
me and all that sort of thing, well, I am sure 
as I stand here, that I should leave you. And 
what would be the use of that to you or me? 
The very first sign of your eternal fault-finding 
which you can no more help than I can help hug¬ 
ging my freedom to do and be what I choose — 
the very first sign of the very mildest tyranny, 
and I’d be off like a shot. I shouldn’t wait a 
minute. Nothing could keep me.” 

Keble had raised himself from the cushions and 



PATUFFA 357 

sat huddled up in a corner of the sofa, with his 
hands covering his face. 

“ I’d take all the risks of that,” he half sobbed. 
“ You know I would.” 

“ But I wouldn’t,” Patuffa said abruptly. 
u Nothing could induce me to. It wouldn’t be fair 
to you or fair to myself. If I’ve seriously en¬ 
couraged you to hope that one day I should give 
in and that you’d only got to wait, then all I can 
say is that I am bitterly sorry.” 

“ You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he mur¬ 
mured. “ It has been my doing all along — never 
yours.” 

u I’m not so sure of that,” she said. “ I don’t 
say I’ve played with you, because it simply isn’t 
my way to play about with a man in that sense, 
have him on, and then let him down and enjoy 
doing it. But I have wanted easy comradeship 
with you. You’ve given it at a greater sacrifice 
than I knew, and I’ve taken it in my beastly 
selfishness.” 

“ No, no,” he said, “ not that. It hasn’t been 
your fault if I’ve always hoped — always shall 
hope.” 

She was silent a moment, and then she went 
on gravely: 

“ You must recover from me, Keble. It will 
help you that I am going away — yes, even with 
Madame Janeiro. You will recover. We all do, 
mercifully, in a sort of way. Take my own case. 
I never thought I should raise my head again. 


358 


PATUFFA 


But I have raised it and passed on. You must 
do the same, somehow. For as sure as I stand 
here, I shall never give in. I know my own mind. 
I know what I want. If you waited your whole 
lifetime through, I should never give in.” 

She moved to the door, and there she paused 
and glanced wistfully in his direction. Then she 
said: 

“ Keble, I do wish you to know that I’m suf¬ 
fering horribly in making you suffer, and that if 
my words sound cruel and metallic, I’m not feel¬ 
ing cruel or heartless — I’m only feeling most 
frightfully sorry.” 

Fie did not uncover his face, did not raise his 
bowed head. 

She stole softly out of the room. 


CHAPTER VI 


B EFORE Madame Janeiro left England she 
paid Mama a visit. She came with her 
arms full of the most beautiful azaleas, 
delicate flesh color, tenderest pink. Mama had 
never before had such a wealth offered to her, 
and she gathered them to her, and seemed to 
become part of them as she sat on the sofa side 
by side with Janeiro, the two beautiful women 
and the flowers forming a vision of loveliness 
which would have lingered in the memory of any 
one who had seen it. 

Janeiro took Mama’s hand and held it for a 
time in silence. 

At last she said: 

“ I have something on my mind, dear Madame 
Mama. It is this. You are trusting your Pa- 
tuffe to me, and I want you to be quite sure that 
I shall not abuse that great trust. My life . . .’ r 

She broke off, and touched the flowers in a soft 
caress, as if to encourage herself. 

Then she went on, in a low voice, moving her 
head gently to and fro. 

“ My life has not been as your life. Some¬ 
times I regret — but often not at all. I have let 

my emotions, my passions which are very strong, 

359 


360 


PATUFFA 


Madame Mama, lead me away — lead me astray. 
Well, there it is. As I say, perhaps I regret, per¬ 
haps I do not. But I want you to have it clear 
in your mind that I will guard Patuffe’s spirit as 
I would have guarded that of my own daughter. 
No deed of mine, no word of mine, no thought 
of mine shall harm her. Can you believe this? 
Can you be entirely at peace in knowing that 
Patuffe and I shall not only share the laurels — 
for we shall have laurels, but we shall also share 
all the sweet and lovely things which belong to 
the springtime of life.” 

“ I trust her to you with all my heart,” Mama 
said, smiling up at her with radiant confidence. 

Mama repeated her words: “With all my 
heart” 

Madame Janeiro closed her eyes a moment. 

“ Thank you, Madame Mama,” she said. 
“ You make me happy and joyous.” 

“ How can I thank you for holding out a hand 
to my little Patuffa in this princely fashion? ” 
Mama said gently, when Janeiro opened her eyes. 

“ No need to thank,” smiled Janeiro. “ Some 
fresh air came my way and I breathed it in grate¬ 
fully.” 

She looked towards the piano and sprang up. 

“ Music begins where language ends,” she said. 
“ Shall I play before you, Madame Mama, and 
tell you all the words I have left unsaid? I feel 
I should like to play before you.” 

“ And if you only would,” cried Mama eagerly. 


P A T U F F A 


361 


For a moment Janeiro’s hands rested on the 
keys in silence. She was choosing her message. 

And soon Mama was listening to the grand 
sweeping chords of Cesar Franck’s Chorale, fit 
music to seal a solemn pact. 



PART IV 





CHAPTER I 


I 

P ATUFFA went off in high spirits on her 
American tour. Mama was happy over the 
coming home of Eric on leave, and was 
buoyed up with maternal pride in her sailor son. 
Patuffa had always bullied him in the past, and 
he returned with a fixed and stern determination 
to deal with her effectively in naval battle fashion. 
Instead of the tyrant whom he was prepared to 
annihilate, he found a high-hearted chum ready 
to meet him more than half way, and he had to 
own that “ she wasn’t half bad.” He was a little 
condescending about her career, for he did not 
think fiddling was good form, but he admitted 
her playing was all right in its way. She was de¬ 
lighted with her fine grown midshipman brother 
nine years her junior, looked up to him respect¬ 
fully as a worthy naval representative of the 
family, and accepted his patronizing indulgence 
in a sporting spirit. And suddenly his patronage 
and indulgence collapsed, and Eric gave her 
friendship on equal terms. Mama’s content was 
tenfold increased to see their good understand¬ 
ing. She had been feeling anxious over the re- 

365 


366 P A T U F F A 

membrance of angry bullying nursery scenes of 
former days. 

Madame Tcharushin had laughed at her fears. 

“ We don’t go on doing all the things we used 
to do in the nursery, Marionska,” she said. 
“ Some we do, of course, but not all. Warfare, 
for instance, which has about as much sense as 
any fighting in the nursery. Perhaps some day — 
not in our time — the nations will put that also 
aside as senseless childishness leading to nothing. 
Who knows? ” 

So when brother and sister were seen to be the 
best of “ pals,” and Mama purred with happiness 
and harmony, Madame Pat said: 

“ I told you so. Am I not always right? How 
wonderful I am! Did I not also tell you that 
your Steyning man would oblige us by marrying 
his housekeeper. And has not that also come 
true? ” 

“ It was his model,” said Mama. 

u That is only a detail,” laughed her friend. 
“ I was right in principle — whatever that means, 
Marionska. And the great point is that the vision 
of that lonely man is now exorcised for evermore. 
Not that I think you have been tormented much 
by it lately — mercifully for yourself — and me.” 

“ No,” said Mama, a little shamefacedly. u It 
has not troubled me — not as much as it ought.” 

“ My child, if we didn’t get rid of our regrets, 
we should get rid of our senses — if we have any,” 
said Madame Tcharushin. 


PATUFFA 


367 


Thus Patuffa left home easy in her mind about 
Mama, knitted to her in still closer bonds of 
friendship, and comforted by the knowledge that 
her godmother, according to a sacred promise, 
would not be risking her life and liberty in Russia 
until after her return from America. Chummy 
was in good health. Irene was having further 
successes with her “ scribbling,” as Patuffa called 
it, and Keble, who had kept away from the Rend- 
hams, gathered himself together and came to 
grasp her hand and wish her God-speed. 


II 

News came of the tour from time to time. Ma¬ 
dame Janeiro and she went to some of the usual 
towns: in the East, New York, Boston, Philadel¬ 
phia, Baltimore, and Washington, and in the 
West, to Chicago, Omaha, Nebraska, San Fran¬ 
cisco, and Los Angeles. 

Patuffa’s letters were glowing with happiness 
and excitement. 

She wrote: 

“ I am getting roses, roses all the way. I sup¬ 
pose I ought to have thorns as well. But so far 
none have pierced me. 

“ Madame Janeiro is a glorious companion in 
every way. She plays with an amazing magnifi¬ 
cence when she is in the mood. When she isn’t 
she does not trouble! But she takes good care 


368 


PATUFFA 


that I should always be ‘ keyed up ’ and rounds 
me right well when I fall short of what I can do 
and be. I learn so much from her, as you may 
imagine. Being with her is a musical education 
in itself — just as being with darling Chummy 
was an education in all directions. I am glad 
I have not to wait till I’m old and toothless be¬ 
fore realizing that. I realize it now—and in¬ 
creasingly. 

“ I had a great success at the Boston Symphony 
Concert. Janeiro says I improve all the time — 
except when I don’t — and gain in breadth and 
freedom. I hope I may in time learn that mys¬ 
terious and magic secret — to be one with one’s 
art — and yet free of it. Of course it is so thrill¬ 
ing playing with a mature genius like herself, 
that apart from the enthusiasm and appreciation 
of the public, I am spurred on to reach heights 
unattainable by me yet, but to which she beckons 
me by all she is and stands for. It is a most 
stimulating experience. I could die of it. 

“We have had a few scenes, of course, when 
she has taken to her bed, said she was dying and 
has bequeathed Pom-pom to me! I must say I 
hope I shall never survive to have Pom-pom be¬ 
queathed to me. I should miss these scenes if 
we did not have them occasionally. The truth 
is Janeiro has attacks of severe nervousness and 
feels she cannot face an audience. Perhaps I 
may feel like that one day. At present I could 
face any audience whatsoever — an audience of 


PATUFFA 369 

wild beasts and rattle-snakes and tarantula spiders 
combined. 

“ I cannot tell you how charming and generous 
she is over the applause and the recalls. She 
shares everything — bouquets and all. 

“ We’ve finished up in Los Angeles. And now 
we are off on a, holiday to the country back of 
San Diego to visit a ranch belonging to botanist 
friends of Janeiro and to make some expedition 
into the Cuyamaca Mountains. Janeiro says 
Pom-pom needs a holiday badly and that the ex¬ 
citement has got on his nerves. We are really 
tired out — tired but triumphant. I long to have 
a spell of Nature. 

“ No words of mine could describe what we are 
seeing. You see, we have arrived at Springtime. 
The rains have come and gone only recently, and 
the foothills around us are like fairyland, covered 
with a wealth of escholtzias, flaming and flashing 
in the sunlight. Their beauty is entrancing, short¬ 
lived, I hear, but none the less marvelous for that. 
Probably more marvelous. There are carpets of 
the little pink blossoms of the alfilaria, and carpets 
of golden violets sending out the most delicious 
fragrance, and indeed flowers innumerable of all 
colors. I’ve picked and pressed a few of them. 
I’ve learnt a lot about them from our botanist 
friends. I don’t know what you would say to the 
Mariposa lily, just like a luscious yellow butterfly. 
As for the green of the plains and hill-sides, I’ve 
never seen such an intensely vivid hue. It doesn’t 


370 


PATUFFA 


last more than a very few weeks. Its glory 
passes into brown and old gold coloring, but I 
should think that must be beautiful also. I am 
really reveling in the nature around us, and love 
the foothills and the great boulders and the moun¬ 
tains in the distance and the suns&ts with their 
purple light which seems to embrace the world. 
Don’t you think I’m eKpressing myself rather 
fairly well, for me? Irene will be proud of me 
— extra proud — bless her. 

“ Yesterday Pom-pom escaped from guardian¬ 
ship and strolled on his own amongst the lemon 
trees at the further end of the ranch. We found 
him grubbing about in peaceful proximity to a 
rattlesnake curled round a tree and mercifully 
asleep! I thought Janeiro would have had a.lit! 
I have no fears about Pom-pom myself. He 
would survive the worst disaster ever imaginable 
by the. human mind. I feel quite rested, and as 
strong as my little Mexican pony on which I am 
having some jolly rides. No need.to be anxious 
about me, dearest Mama. I’m in fine form, .as 
brown as a manzanita bush, and hugely delighted 
with life. Some day I must bring you here to 
do some Mariposa lily embroidery under the shade 
of the lovely pepper trees. 

“ Yesterday, on this ranch, at the request of 
our botanists, we gave a concert. The news 
spread abroad in that mysterious and quick way 
in which news does travel in lonely parts. And 
we had a ‘ full housed All sorts of curious and 


PATUFFA 


371 


off-the-line people as well as prosperous ranchers. 
Several prospectors, a* Swedish storekeeper from 
the nearest township, an agent from one of the 
Indian Reservations, cattle-ranchers down from 
the mountains, explorers from the Canon of the 
Colorado, two or three other botanists engaged 
in the study of the flora of California, young 
English fellows who had not 1 made good ’ at 
home and weren’t doing much better here — ‘ re¬ 
mittance men ’ they are called — and many 
others. Young couples and old, who were hav¬ 
ing hard struggles to keep going and disappoint¬ 
ments by the yard, and had lost their money and 
their crops and, I am afraid, their hopes.. It was 
a sight to see all the buggies and horses tethered 
to the rod. 

“ I cannot tell you ho^w sweet Janeiro was.. 
The piano wasn’t up to* much, but that made no 
difference to her. She would have made lovely 
music for them out of an old ba-rrel. She said 
to me: ‘Now, Patuffa, this is .the audience to 
which we must give of our very, very best. You 
can see that many of these people living in lonely 
places are hungry and thirsty for the bread and 
wine of the spirit. We must surpass ourselves. 
You have your Stradivari with you, and you 
must wring the soul out of it for them. And I 
must wring the soul out of this ol.d soa.p-box—' 
though Heaven only knows how I’m going to do 
it! But it must be don.e, for you see, my child, 
we have a gracious chance. An outpost of the 


372 


PATUFFA 


world. A great need to administer to. Balm to 
give. Uplifting to give. Joy and pleasure to 
give. All the beautiful things that our beautiful 
art can give. We must not fail.’ 

“ Well, it goes without saying that she did not 
fail. And I know I didn’t fail either. I played 
a heap of solos and finished up with the Andante 
from the Mendelssohn Concerto which, strangely 
enough, a very old Englishman asked me for. 
He seemed much moved — touched by remem¬ 
brance, he told me. 

“I was very uplifted — more than I’ve ever 
been, I think. The setting, the circumstances, 
appealed to my imagination. I played from the 
plumbago veranda, on the very spot where Papa 
Stefansky had played — imagine that — he had 
been here several times on his many wanderings. 
The expanse, the sense of freedom, the fragrance, 
his memory, Janeiro’s words, the realization of 
the high mission of music instilled into me by 
Chummy, by old Herr Riemer in the Dresden 
days, by Stefansky, by Janeiro, inspired me, and 
I soared, and my wings have grown stronger by 
that flight. I shall reach further yet.” 


CHAPTER II 


O THER letters followed, with descriptions 
of expeditions into the mountains, and 
then Madame Janeiro and Patuffa re¬ 
turned from the West, stopped a few days in 
New York and embarked for England. Mama 
and Chummy both received extravagant and joy¬ 
ous cables; and a great welcome was prepared at 
Patuffa’s home and at Headquarters. 

But a terrible disaster took place. The liner 
came into collision with a cargo vessel in a dense 
fog and went down in less than twenty minutes. 
Patuffa was not amongst the saved. 

The story of her last moments was told by the 
third officer who was picked up in an exhausted 
condition after having clung on to some floatable 
object for many hours. He was terribly dis¬ 
tressed that she had gone. He had kept her up 
alongside of him, but she had suddenly relaxed 
hold of the upturned boat to which they were 
clinging and disappeared. He said he would have 
given his life a hundred times over to have saved 
her, she was such a plucky one. 

This was part of his account which Irene had 
pasted in her diary: 


373 


374 


PATUFFA 


“ We got six boats safely off and they managed 
to pull clear, but the ship was heeling over very 
rapidly to the port side, and it was certain enough 
she was doomed. In the sixth boat went Madame 
Janeiro, the pianist, who had been playing to us 
together with little Miss Rendham, the violinist, 
several times on the voyage. Madame Janeiro 
was a good bit scared and looked as white as 
death, but all the same she didn’t want to leave 
Miss Rendham behind when it was found there 
was only room for one and implored her to go 
instead. But the little one wouldn’t hear of that, 
not she, and she helped hustle her off, saying: 
' I shall he all right, darling. Next boat, you 
know / 

“ She knew there wasn’t going to be any next 
boat, right enough. She had behaved splendidly, 
showing the greatest pluck and courage and was 
of the utmost possible help to the stewardesses 
and all of us with the passengers, looking after 
every one except herself and as cool as a cucum¬ 
ber and as quick as a dart. The ship by this time 
was right over on her port-side until her deck 
was almost flush with the water, and it wasn’t 
possible to lower the seventh boat. And I said 
to her: 4 Rough luck on you to be left behind.’ 
She smiled and said: ‘Oh, no, I’m so thankful 
my friend is safe. She is a great artist and the 
world needs her. Besides, I came of sailor folk. 
It’s my right to be here.’ I told her to stand 
near me and we’d jump together, and I’d look 


PATUFFA 


375 


after her. She nodded, stood fearless next to me 

' * 

with the stewardesses on the other side of her — 
and the ship went down stern first.” 

At the end of this account Irene wrote these 
few words: 

“ I remember so well the day when Chummy 
took Patuffa and me into the Cathedral at Meis¬ 
sen. We were children then — twelve years old. 
I remember he said: ‘ What shall we all pray for? 
Shall we pray to behave well in danger and in 
prosperity? ’ 

“ So we knelt together and prayed to behave 
well in danger and in prosperity. Patuffa’s prayer 
is answered. She remained a darling in her suc¬ 
cess, and proved herself noble in danger. 

“ We have lost her. At least the thought of 
losing her cannot frighten us any more.” 


THE END 





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